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HIS SECOND 
VENTURE 


J jtsi£u.‘b. VH 

MRS. BAILLIE REYNOLDS 

A H 


NEW 


YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 

**VV 






COPYRIGHT, 1924, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 





* 


HIS SECOND VENTURE 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

SEP 27 1924'' (X 

©C1A807079 - 

-V 


HIS SECOND VENTURE 































HIS SECOND VENTURE 


CHAPTER I 

SWEET HOME 

R ITA KNIGHT sighed and stirred reluctantly 
among her close-wrapped furs as the outline 
of the coast of Dover grew distinct through the 
sleet. She was, in some directions, a clever woman; 
all her life she had succeeded in obtaining the thing 
she wanted; but her present desire—the offer of 
Colonel Caron’s heart and hand—she had not 
achieved, although nobody could, or in fact did, 
accuse her of not having tried. 

She could not plead lack of opportunity, since 
they had travelled together from India, and there 
existed between them that link of old acquaintance 
and old regard which is so strong among Anglo- 
Indians. She was now journeying to England, 
widowed, to rejoin the little daughter whom she 
had not seen for ten years. The colonel, a newly- 
made widower, was on leave, but due to return to 
the East as soon as he should have set his house in 
order. 

With all her mind, soul and strength, Rita was 
determined to get back to India if she could. When 
she envisaged her future in England, living as a 


io His Second Venture 

nobody, on narrow means, either in a maisonette 
in West Kensington or in the remote country 
village wherein her young daughter now awaited 
her, her heart turned to water within her. 

Colonel Caron was distinctly well-to-do. His 
Martershire home was within easy distance of town 
. . . and before he settled down therein, would in¬ 
tervene two or three more blissful years in India, 
with money enough to live in real luxury. . . . 

Of course, three ready-made children constitute 
a bit of a handicap, particularly when they are the 
children of so detestable a woman as Blanche Caron. 
Rita had already decided that this should be her 
answer if any friends were spiteful enough to hint 
surprise that nothing definite had resulted from 
the intimacy of the voyage. “Oh, yes, Carfrae 
Caron is a dear; but three of them—and my own 
girlie as well! These mixed families are diffi¬ 
cult. . . 

What a mercy for poor Carfrae that Blanche 
was dead! One never expects a woman of that 
kind to die. These nerve cases usually live for ever. 
It was some years since the lady in question had 
accompanied her husband to India. After the birth 
of her third child she had retired to Martershire 
and the sofa, giving, as she told her friends, all her 
time and attention to the wonderful task of training 
young minds. Her death was quite unexpected, the 
result of an accident; everyone surmised that the 
feelings of the widower must have been those of 
pure relief. 


Sweet Home 


ii 


It was, however, very recent—even more recent 
than Mrs. Knight’s own bereavement. Perhaps, 
even in these unsentimental days, it was too soon 
for an actual proposal of marriage. 

Rita had sincerely mourned Jack Knight, not 
merely because he had been a most indulgent hus¬ 
band, but because his death left her shorn of almost 
all that made life pleasant. A heartfelt sigh escaped 
her as she watched her ayah tying up a bundle on 
a seat near. Hired for the voyage, this woman was 
taking the next boat back with another lady in 
charge; and Rita was dolefully considering the 
misery of putting on her own boots and arranging 
her own hair. 

Colonel Caron came strolling towards her, his 
coat collar turned up, his manner preoccupied. 

“Well”—he winced from the wind-driven, icy 
sleet—“old England welcomes us in her own in¬ 
imitable style, doesn’t she?” 

There was something very moving in the appeal¬ 
ing gaze of the beautiful eyes lifted to his. Rita 
was, in fact, three years older than the youthful 
colonel, rapidly promoted during the war; but she 
did not look her age. They made an elegant, har¬ 
monious pair; her slim height could be seen as he 
raised her to her feet, steadying her against the 
gusts with light fingers on her arm. Her thirty- 
eight years might well have passed for twenty-eight, 
so unlined was her face, so wavy and brown her 
thick hair. 

“So it’s over,” she said. Her voice, always 


12 His Second Venture 

musical, quivered on a note of touching poignancy. 
“The warm, sunny chapter of my Indian life has 
passed! Now for the rigours of an English winter 
in the north!” 

“You are going straight to Grendon?” he asked 
with a touch of compunction. A shade of softness 
veiled his usually hard light-grey eyes. 

“Oh, I must! My little girlie will be counting 
the minutes-” 

His jaw set grimly. “That so? I don’t see my 
own little lot yearning for my company. However, 
we must hope for the best. Ah! We’ve stopped! 
Here, ayah!” 

“No, don’t call her, please; find me a porter. 
She is going to Folkestone to find the memsahib 
with whom she returns to Calcutta.” 

“Why, but that leaves you alone for all that long, 
cold journey.” 

“I must get accustomed to being alone,” she 
replied, averting her face and flinging into her voice 
that brave quiet which makes so strong an appeal 
to the mere man. 

Caron’s well-cut face looked hard, and he had 
the reputation of being difficult to handle, though 
during the voyage he had, as people said, eaten out 
of Rita Knight’s hand. Yet she had failed, and 
she knew it. What she did not know was by how 
narrow a margin she had failed. Her words and 
her smile moved the man horribly. His exterior 
might be adamant. Within he was a mere mush of 
sentiment. Had there been time—had the two had 



Sweet Home 13 

privacy at that moment—this story might never 
have been written. 

The gangway was, however, down and the first- 
class passengers already surging forward. The two 
moved along in the crowd, and each with different 
feelings knew it to be too late. Her regret, his 
relief, were alike silent. 

Mrs. Knight’s large quantities of personal lug¬ 
gage and effects were all registered through to 
Charing Cross. She had nothing to do but to secure 
a corner in the train, which the colonel did for her, 
and brought her a cup of tea and the first English 
newspaper. Then he shut her into her compart¬ 
ment and strolled away, murmuring that he must 
travel up with a certain General Cobb, who was an 
influential friend of his. 

That was final. As the train ran through the 
murky February landscape her spirits sank and 
sank. She was plunged in depression when at last 
she saw the mean platform of Charing Cross loom¬ 
ing dimly through an unwashed kind of atmosphere, 
yellow and stagnant. 

On that platform was a man whose face she knew 
well. He was Lyndsay Eldrid, an artist who had 
spent a cold weather at the station where her hus¬ 
band was in the Woods and Forests Department. 
He was running eagerly beside the train, his face 
alight with welcome; and suddenly she remembered 
that he was brother to Blanche Caron, and was 
obviously there to meet his brother-in-law. She had 
seen a good deal of him during his visit to India, 


14 His Second Venture 

and he had acknowledged her hospitality with the 
gift of a beautiful water-colour sketch of her bunga¬ 
low and garden. She remembered his having told 
her that when in England he lived with his sister 
at Archwood, Caron’s house in Martershire, not far 
from Marterstead. 

As he ran beside the train he was waving his hat, 
and his mop of fair hair, worn rather longer than 
is usual, struck a note of gaiety in the gloom. It 
seemed hard to Rita that Caron, a man, should have 
this jocund greeting at his journey’s end, when she, 
the woman, was so utterly alone. 

She was standing up, reaching for her bags in the 
netting and wondering whether, with the train so 
full, a lone female stood any chance of a porter, 
when she heard a merry voice, “Hallo, Mrs. 
Knight!” and saw both Caron and Eldrid at the 
door of her compartment. 

“Carfrae tells me you came over in his boat! 
Lucky blighter! There’s never a really charming 
woman on the boat I travel by! It’s awfully nice 
to see you again! Give us those things. What 
time’s your train? We want you to come and lunch 
with us, won’t you?” 

Her spirits rose. She had a gleam of hope. 
Caron, she thought, could hardly commit himself 
until he had been home and had reviewed the 
position of things at Archwood. But he did not 
mean to let her slip. She smiled, the pretty smile 
not too wide, carefully calculated, which men 
thought so womanly, and looked wistfully at him. 


Sweet Home 15 

“But, dear man—this moment off a journey— 
look at me!” 

“I do, and I like looking,” cried Eldrid, declar¬ 
ing that they would take no refusal. 

She suffered herself to be persuaded. “I’ve two 
hours before my train leaves Euston,” she owned, 
“time enough to be thoroughly miserable all by 
myself. So if you’ll let me have ten minutes before 
a looking-glass, and if you’ll swear not to land me 
at the Ritz, but in some small nook in Soho where 
daylight never penetrates, I’ll risk it!” 

“Off to your mirror, dear lady, but don’t det it 
keep you too long, as I should certainly do in its 
place,” laughed Eldrid, who seemed extraordinarily 
exhilarated. And in a quarter of an hour she found 
herself in a taxi with the two of them, being driven 
towards a certain Italian restaurant which was the 
young man’s special fancy. 

“And where is it you’re bound for?” he wished 
to know. “I forget exactly where your country 
place is.” 

Rita laughed softly. “My country place I 
Doesn’t that sound nice and important? Unfor¬ 
tunately my cottage at Grendon is an unmarketable 
white elephant. It is in Westmorland, but not in 
the lake district. Nothing can more forcibly explain 
its hopelessness. If we could but move it twelve 
miles nearer Ulleswater we could let it for fabulous 
sums in the summer. But it is nowhere near any 
place you ever heard of. You could hardly fancy 
there was so lonely a place in England. It belonged 


16 His Second Venture 

to an old aunt of Jack’s, and she left it to him with 
a few hundreds a year. I wanted to sell it, but he 
had memories of childhood there, and always 
looked forward to ending his days in it; and cer¬ 
tainly it has proved an ideal spot for Val to be 
brought up in.” 

“Val? Your child? I thought she was a girl?” 

“So she is. My husband’s mother was called 
Valeria. That seemed to me too alarming a name, 
so we compromised on Valery. She has been at 
Grendon most of her life, in charge of a devoted 
Miss Kirby who used to be Jack’s governess and 
adores the Knight family. We thought her a 
heaven-sent boon when we were faced by the neces¬ 
sity to leave Val in England.” 

“Well you might! You probably have no idea 
how lucky you are! My poor sister could never 
find anyone strong enough to cope successfully with 
our young devils; and now that she is gone chaos 
is come again! I tell you I never was so pleased 
in my life as when I saw this old chap’s ugly mug 
grinning at me through the carriage window.” 

“Yes, you looked absurdly pleased.” 

“Pleased! It isn’t the word. I’ve been carrying 
on here the whole winter. Picture it! The bachelor 
uncle! I can tell you, those imps of darkness have 
put it across me! I had to engage a governess; 
thought I’d be careful, and took one who said her 
age was forty—owned to forty, mark you! I con¬ 
sidered that safe. But not a bit of it! She waves 
her hair and powders her nose, and wears jade 


Sweet Home 17 

jumpers and skirts to her knees! She expects one 
to provide her with chocolates and flowers, and 
would like to be taken out to dinner and a theatre! 
I tell you, I tremble for Carfrae.” 

“I don’t think he’ll be in much danger, from your 
description,” laughed Rita. “He can take care of 
himself as well as you can, I should think.” 

“Nevertheless, the lady sounds perilous,” said 
Caron gravely. “I think I shall dismiss her and 
send the whole lot to school.” 

“If you can get any school to take ’em,” said 
their candid uncle. “They are the limit, I tell you! 
Poor Blanche was bitten with all this Montessori 
stuff, and the consequence is they can hardly read; 
you never saw such ignoramuses. Aster, the eldest, 
is nearly eleven, and she told me she had never 
heard of Julius Caesar!” 

“You are not concerned to praise your nephews 
and niece,” observed the colonel with a wry smile. 

“Oh, I believe they’d have been quite decent 
average kids if they hadn’t been brought up to con¬ 
sider themselves youthful prodigies and to believe 
they are the centre of the universe. They have been 
told that they must be a law unto themselves! They 
want taking in hand, that’s all. Why, Lance is nine, 
but if you sent him to a good prep, school he’d have 
to go in the bottom form with kids of seven. That’s 
why I thought they’d better have a governess first; 
but she can’t make ’em learn!” He chuckled to 
himself. “Aster says that Miss Lane’s aura is an¬ 
tagonistic to her,” he said mischievously. 


18 His Second Venture 

Rita smiled gently, looking sympathetic, but not 
too much so. “They are evidently very original 
children,” she said, “as one might expect with such 
a mother. Well, you might do worse than take on 
my dear old Kirby, for I don’t suppose I shall be 
able to afford to keep her. I suppose she is a bit 
old-fashioned now, but she was first-rate. My hus¬ 
band’s sister, Esther Knight, is Principal of St. 
Frideswide’s, the newest Women’s College in Ox¬ 
ford, and Miss Kirby educated her until she matric¬ 
ulated. . . . But I expect Colonel Caron will soon 
reduce things to order. ... At any rate, colonel, 
if things get too tiresome, you can always come to 
Grendon for a little rest. Whatever faults the place 
may have, it is at least full of tranquillity; and I 
would love you to see my little girlie.” 


CHAPTER II 
rita’s daughter 

S O Valery’s mother is coming home at last I 
Arrives to-night, so Miss Kirby tells me,” 
remarked Mrs. Hudson as she entered the vicarage 
dining-room and pulled off her gardening gloves in 
preparation for helping the vicar to cold mutton. 

“To-day? Dear, dear! We must go round 
to-morrow and pay our respects,” replied the vicar, 
lean, elderly and stringy-looking. “Well, she’ll 
find her daughter a good, sensible, well-brought-up 
girl, won’t she?” 

“Just what old Miss Knight would have wished 
her great-niece to be,” was the almost defiant 
answer. “Not many of that type to be found 
nowadays.” 

The vicar cleared his throat. “I do trust that 
Mrs. Knight may settle down here. When last I 
saw her she seemed to me regrettably frivolous; 
but since then she has known bereavement by the 
inscrutable decree of Providence.” 

“Humph! Let us hope for the best!” broke in 
his wife absent-mindedly. She was gazing from the 
window, out beyond the imperfectly tended garden, 
across a little valley to the lift of a wooded hill on 
whose southern slope stood an unassuming white 
19 


20 His Second Venture 

house with a green veranda and green shutters. It 
was placed near the top of the hill, on whose flank 
the trees had been cut away to make open spaces of 
park land, with a few clumps. The figure of a tall 
woman could be seen, clad in a long rusty old coat, 
moving upwards from the valley towards the white 
house. 

“There goes Valery; been down to feed the 
fowls. She’s a quarter of an hour late to-day. Most 
unusual! How excited she must be feeling!” 

Mr. Hudson adjusted his glasses and gazed pen¬ 
sively at the homely figure. “Ten years since they 
met, and Miss Kirby says Mrs. Knight still writes 
as to the little girl she left behind her.” He chuckled 
guiltily. “Won’t it be a bit of a shock?” 

“It’s very certain,” rejoined the lady frigidly, 
“that the girl’s size can’t be altered.” 

The subject of these remarks had now reached 
home. She pushed open the door of the garden- 
room with her knee, shut it behind her with her 
heel, and proceeded to lay down her empty dishes, 
to pull off her old coat and her goloshes, and to 
hasten away upstairs with an impetuosity which 
made the banisters rattle. Having reached the 
square landing at the top she paused, a smile hov¬ 
ering on her lips, and pushed open the door of the 
best bedroom. 

It was ready for its guest. In all its Early Vic¬ 
torian primness it stood there, its great mahogany 
“tester” bed covered with a dazzlingly white mar- 


21 


Rita’s Daughter 

cella quilt, its serviceable brussels carpet swept to 
the final pitch of dustlessness, its wardrobe giving 
back each gleam of light and scenting the air with 
beeswax and turpentine. 

Valery looked at the bed. It seemed incredible 
that “mother”—her beautiful dream mother— 
would that very night lay her head upon that pillow. 
Would she perhaps—who knew?—suggest that her 
“girlie” should share her bed? There was plenty 
of room! 

Val took off her spectacles and polished them, for 
her eyes were misty. Almost timidly she approached 
the dressing-table and scrutinized its spotless cover, 
its bare appointments. What did it lack? Why, 
flowers, of course. When lunch was over she would 
run down the park to the Holt Clumps and gather 
snowdrops. 

As she stood motionless, rapt in happy antici¬ 
pation, all was so still that she could hear the singing 
of the beck in the hollow. It did not strike her as 
lonely. It was her life, and she had been always 
happy—perhaps the happier for the possession of 
two dream parents and the treasured hope of a life 
of glorious reunion. Upon her love for these par¬ 
ents, and theirs for her, all her simple philosophy 
of life was based. But they had never formed part 
of her experience, and her grief for her father had 
been chiefly a grief of the imagination. 

When she and the faithful old Miss Kirby had 
eaten their rabbit and rice pudding, they went to¬ 
gether into the drawing-room—a room only used 


22 


His Second Venture 

by them on very rare occasions—to light the fire 
that the room might be thoroughly warm for the 
traveller. 

As the governess’s gaze wandered round, the 
apartment struck her suddenly as being both ugly 
and cheerless. All at once she saw it, as it were, 
with Mrs. Knight’s eyes; and as she wondered how 
it would appear to her, she also* for the very first 
time, wondered what impression Valery herself 
would make upon a stranger, and a little pang con¬ 
stricted her kind heart. 

Valery was stoutish and clumsy and big. Her 
spectacles made her look older than her age. Her 
thick mane, plaited in one long rope and coiled in a 
lump behind, was taken too abruptly off a forehead 
that needed shading. She wore a flannel blouse, 
short serge skirt, thick stockings, square-toed 
shoes. . . . 

No thought that anything in her own appearance 
could lessen her mother’s love had ever crossed the 
daughter’s limpid mind. She was not at all shy, 
eminently sociable in fact, and she beamed through 
her glasses as though she found in the universe 
something new, something splendid, because of her 
coming joy. 

“I know what this house wants—flowers!” cried 
she. “Why, Kirdles, there are genistas and primulas 
in the greenhouse. I’m going to bring some ini” 
She dashed off, with Josh, her Aberdeen terrier, 
barking at her heels, and Miss Kirby stared after 
her with furrowed brow. She had done her best for 


Rita’s Daughter 23 

her charge. Why was she now, for the first time, 
assailed by the thought that a whole generation had 
elapsed since her last post, and that her present 
pupil had been modelled not upon to-day, but yes¬ 
terday? 

Such was the daughter who swooped down upon 
the slim, sealskin-dad figure which alighted that 
night on the platform of the lonely moorland 
station, enveloping her in an embrace which seemed 
to be that of a giantess. 

Rita gasped. Heavens! Could this be true? 
Was this her girlie, this strapping woman in spec¬ 
tacles, choking with emotion, trying to speak, hang¬ 
ing upon her with absolutely no doubt whatever that 
her joy in the meeting was reciprocated? 

Rita was feeling low enough to have responded 
gladly to any advance had it come from the charm¬ 
ing flapper whom she expected to see; but this great 
Flanders mare. . . . 

“Never!” was her cry. “I can’t believe it! My 
wee girlie . . . it’s like a nightmare!” 

Poor Miss Kirby’s voice, repeating piteously “a 
nightmare!” recalled her to herself, and she did her 
best to play up to the occasion, to return the tearful 
kisses, to express joy in this reunion; but the effort 
exhausted her last remnant of fortitude, and when 
at last she entered the Grange she was conscious of 
nothing but a fatigue so vast as to be like 
annihilation. 

There was a blazing fire in her room, and the 


24 His Second Venture 

quality of the hot coffee and sandwiches provided 
left nothing to be desired. She pleaded headache, 
the necessity to be alone; and when Valery, crushed 
and disappointed, had unwillingly retired, she sank 
down in the cavernous arm-chair in which old Miss 
Knight had died, and tried to face this final disaster 
which had overtaken her. 

This was her daughter. She was saddled with her 
for life. No husband would ever take this mistake 
of nature off her hands. “And she used to be quite 
a pretty child!” she murmured, as if expostulating 
with an invisible tyrant. 

The word encumbrance was the only term of 
description which would come to her. What man 
would be likely to marry Rita, if at the price of 
having Valery as an inmate of his household? 

When at last the returned traveller sank to sleep 
in the convolutions of the feather bed, it was with 
a despair that was ready to throw up the sponge 
altogether. Life had grown too ugly. 

Breakfast-time filled the little house with wintry 
sunshine, an odour of hot bacon, new bread and 
coffee. 

Certainly English food is delicious! Under its 
influence Rita began to find something humorous in 
the situation. Gazing ruefully upon the uncom¬ 
promising proportions of the ungainly girl, she re¬ 
marked: “You should have been a boy, Val. You 
are absurdly like your father.” 
b s “Yes, indeed, she is like darling Jack,” eagerly 
put in Miss Kirby. “She is like him in disposition, 


Rita’s Daughter 25 

too; I can’t give her higher praise. I loved him 
better than anybody in the world.” 

“What a dear, faithful friend you are, Kirby,” 
murmured the fair widow. “What would many 
people give to have a creature like you to leave in 
charge of their darlings! My old friend Colonel 
Caron, for instance. He has to go back to India; 
has lost his wife; his children are being ruined for 
want of a firm hand.” 

“But Kirdles,” said Val quickly, “can’t be spared 
from here, can she, mother?” 

Rita sighed. “We shall have to count our 
pennies, darling. Things will be different now that 
father is gone.” A dismayed silence followed this 
bomb-shell. Val, cruelly conscious of her mother’s 
disappointment in her, now felt that if the steady 
and unfailing love and approval of Kirdles were to 
be taken away from her, life was going to be a hard 
thing. 

“By the way, Kirby,” went on Rita, “tell me 
something about a man who lives somewhere here¬ 
abouts—a tall, untidy man, not very young, with the 
initials O. J. ?” 

“O. J. ?” queried Kirdles. “Why, that must be 
Sir Otho Jerrold, the M.F.H.” 

“Ah! He looked like an M.F.H. somehow. 
What’s his wife like?” 

“He isn’t married. Such a pity! If he had been, 
he might have had children, and Val would have 
had someone to play with. He lives at Grendon 
Manor, our only neighbour within miles.” 


26 His Second Venture 

“He tumbled into my carriage at Oxenholme,” 
said Rita thoughtfully, “and we had some talk. He 
is good company.” 

Miss Kirby looked doubtful. “The vicar doesn’t 
get on with him at all,” she volunteered. “Mr. 
Hudson fears his views are lax.” 

“Meaning that he can’t be bothered to go to 
church, I expect,” said Rita abstractedly, little 
knowing the shock of this remark to the listening 
girl. “Well, we must ask him here. How are we 
off for servants, Kirby? Could we invite a man to 
lunch? What is there in the cellar?” 

Miss Kirby, crimson, dare not glance at Val, 
whom she had warned that her mother’s mourning 
must preclude all gaiety for a while. The fact that 
Rita wore nothing remotely resembling weeds had, 
as it were, hit the good lady in the eye to begin 
with. 

“I’ve never been into the cellar since we came,” 
she owned. “Whatever was there is there still, I 
suppose. As to service, we have Mr. and Mrs. 
Pearce and Nellie-” 

“The child who brought my early tea?” 

“I do hope she did it right?” 

“Oh, yes; but I should think we need another 
maid—someone who could wait on me.” 

“Oh, mother, let me wait on you!” burst out Val, 
aching with devotion and loyalty. “I simply love 
waiting on people.” 

“But, my child, I hope you’ll be otherwise occu¬ 
pied; besides, I think you need someone to wait on 



Rita’s Daughter 27 

you —especially to do your hair.” She tried to speak 
playfully, but the criticism with which her eyes wan¬ 
dered over the unsightly head was to Val all the 
more excruciating because unspoken. “Some girls 
can never do their hair—temperament, I suppose,” 
with a deep sigh. 

Miss Kirby, bristling with championship for her 
nursling, interposed: “Val hasn’t had much practice 
yet. She has only just put up her hair. I am sure 
she could arrange it better if she were shown how.” 

“Only tell me,” sobbed the big creature, casting 
herself at her mother’s feet. “I’d do anything in 
the world to please you.” 

“Well, girlie, that’s everything,” was the gay 
rejoinder, as Rita’s fingers removed half a dozen 
rather horrible hair-pins and let a shower of light 
hazel-brown hair, clean and silky, fall about the 
heaving shoulders. 

“Straight as string,” she muttered. “All the 
Knight women had straight hair. It’s a pity, be¬ 
cause you are doomed to wave it all your life, poor 
child! ... So, then, the first things that need at¬ 
tention are the cellar, the parlourmaid, and my 
daughter’s hair. How far is it to Manchester? 
Girlie, I think we shall have to buy a little car. Do 
you suppose you could learn to drive?” 

Val’s doleful face broke into wide smiles. “Oh, 
mother, do you mean it? Why, I’d sooner drive a 
car than almost anything.” 

“Darling,” her mother repeated mirthfully, “you 
certainly ought to have been a boy!” 


CHAPTER III 

widowers’ houses 

I T was April. A tearing madcap wind was rol¬ 
licking over the ploughed lands, buffeting the 
coppices and shaking the red buds on the burgeoning 
trees. In the sunshine two horses stood on the 
gravel sweep in front of the house known as Arch¬ 
wood, a Georgian house of good type, built of sober, 
plum-coloured brick, with red window dressings, and 
a charming pedimented doorway. 

Lyndsay Eldrid, already mounted, awaited his 
brother-in-law. His brows were knit as he tried not 
to listen to the sounds from the hall within of raised 
voices, of screams of temper, and then of cries of 
a different quality, evidently those of a child under¬ 
going punishment. 

Presently through the open doorway came strid¬ 
ing Carfrae Caron. His jaw was set, his face hag¬ 
gard; he looked both enraged and ashamed. As 
he flung himself on his horse Lyndsay noticed that 
he was trembling slightly. 

Neither man spoke a word, but they turned their 
horses and rode off down the drive, past the planta¬ 
tion, out upon the Winstable road, which they soon 
abandoned for a lane debouching on the other side, 
among whose windings they speedily found them- 
28 


Widowers’ Houses 29 

selves out of sight and sound of earth-shaking lor¬ 
ries and hurtling cars, in a deep and rural solitude. 

At last Caron broke silence. “It’s enough to 
drive one to drink. Life’s not worth living. And 
what am I to do? I’ve got to go out again in June. 
I shall have to shut up this place and send those mis¬ 
managed imps to some home for the derelict young 
who are cursed with fathers in India.” 

“They want a thoroughly good woman to handle 
’em,” sighed Eldrid. “They’re not bad kiddies if 
someone could put the fear of the Lord into ’em.” 

“Yes, but where are you going to find her? How 
many thoroughly good women are there left in this 
worn-out country? Nice specimens we have man¬ 
aged to collect, anyway. If they even had a nurse 
one could trust!” 

“Blanche sent away old Nannie because she said 
her methods were too completely reactionary.” 

“Reactionary be d-d! She’d have kept ’em 

clean, seen that their habits were regular, drilled 
’em into some kind of routine! I’m helpless!” 

“This daily governess—Mrs. Jennings—is not 
so bad.” 

“No, but the house is pandemonium the moment 
she turns her back! If I forbid anything, they tell 
me that their mother never forbade them to do any¬ 
thing. I went into the library last night, past eleven 
o’clock, and there, if you please, was Aster curled 
up on the sofa reading Anne Veronica. Said her 
mother always let her sleep downstairs if she pre¬ 
ferred it. That I believe to be a lie. I don’t think 



30 


His Second Venture 

even Blanche would have gone to bed leaving the 
children strewn about all over the house.” 

4 ‘I never remember such a thing. Afraid Aster 
always was a bit of a liar.” 

“I had to carry her upstairs, kicking and scream¬ 
ing. It humiliates me! It makes me sick! But 
worst of all was what she said when I got her into 
her room and ordered her to put herself to bed. 
Would you believe it, Lyn, she said: ‘Now I begin 
to see the charm of this brute-force idea. I could 
love and obey a man who did what you have just 
done to me.’ ” 

“Jove!” was the uncle’s awestruck comment. 

“It’s unnatural, it’s foul; the echo of something 
she has picked up without understanding it from one 
of those so-called advanced novels.” He wiped his 
furrowed brow. “I’m fairly up against it,” he 
groaned. 

“You’ll simply have to marry again, old chap.” 

“No, by the Lord!” Caron made a gesture of 
forcible negation. His experience of matrimony had 
been blighting. Blanche had looked so fair and was 
such a whited sepulchre! Her language was so 
high, her character so low! In his extreme youth— 
he married at three-and-twenty—he had worshipped 
her long white throat, her misty hair, her big vague 
eyes that seemed to hold a secret. The secret was 
soon learned. The image enshrined in those mys¬ 
terious eyes was nothing but self, writ large. 
Blanche was one of those egoists who must supply 
themselves with some plausible reason for self-wor- 


Widowers’ Houses 31 

ship. She invented a legend of her own high aims 
and intellectual* superiority; but she had no high 
aims and no intellect. She lived upon catchwords 
and current phrases, culled from the pseudo-scien¬ 
tific cult of the moment. 

“No, not again,” muttered her husband. “For¬ 
give me, Lyn, I expect it was quite half my fault 
that our marriage was such a failure; but a failure 
it was, to an extent that makes me hate and shrink 
from the idea of repeating it.” 

“Well,” replied Lyndsay calmly, “the man who 
marries a woman of Blanche’s type is simply asking 
for trouble. But all women are not alike, really, 
you know, old sport. And the only way to attach 
a woman permanently to the interests of the house 
of Caron would be to marry her, wouldn’t it?” 

“If one could just give the lady one’s name, and 
then sheer off and leave her here to carry on, it 
might be thought of,” was the ironic rejoinder; 
“but such an arrangement would call for the exercise 
of a tact I don’t possess. ... I wonder if Mrs. 
Knight could make any suggestion. I’ve got an in¬ 
vitation in my pocket from her to go up north and 
take one of the kids with me.” 

“Well,” deliberated Lyndsay gravely, “she wants 
to marry you, Car; I suppose you’re aware of that; 
but if you took Aster along she might be weaned 
from that desire. All the same, think it over. You 
might do worse. She’s a charming woman, not with¬ 
out means; but there’s a ready-made daughter, isn’t 
there?” 


32 His Second Venture 

“About Aster’s own age.” 

“H’m! Perhaps it might be a bit awkward to 
introduce them. You’d have Mrs. Knight bringing 
an action against you for corrupting the morals of 
her young and innocent child.” 

“Oh, don’t talk through your hat,” replied Caron 
impatiently. “Mrs. K. isn’t the sort of wife you 
could leave behind. She wouldn’t see that at all. 
. . . But I’m so incredibly fed-up here that I think 
I shall go to Grendon for a short visit. I’ll take 
Lance. He’s the best of the three. And as it is 
he and Aster who fight so diabolically, perhaps you 
could manage for a week or ten days, Lyn? I 
daren’t go if you’re not here. Mrs. Jennings might 
come for longer hours while I’m away.” 

“Oh, if you remove one of those two, I think the 
roof will stay on all right,” laughed Lyndsay. “But 
take my word for it, you’ll come back a doomed 
man! A fi-pun’ note on it!” 

“Done!” said the colonel quietly. “I resisted her 
during the whole of the voyage home, and I think 
I can now. Besides, I had a letter this morning 
from Cobb. When I was at the W.O. the other day 
he mentioned to me that they are actually sending 
out an expedition with military escort into the 
Chugga Desert to test the truth of the story of the 
secret city at Hal-i-Mor; and his letter practically 
offers the command to me. One would have to look 
forward to the best part of two years, apparently, 
and, of course, I can’t do it unless I leave the chil¬ 
dren well looked after. . . . But didn’t Mrs. 


Widowers’ Houses 33 

Knight, when she was lunching with us, say that she 
had just the kind of person I want, up her sleeve?” 

“Jove, now you mention it, I believe she did.” 

“Well, suppose I can persuade old Nannie to 
come back to us—I believe she would for me— 
secure this treasure, and send off Lance to a prepar¬ 
atory? Then I might accept the Chugga thing, 
which would be just after my own heart. If Mrs. 
Knight knew that I was contemplating doing that 
instead of going back to India, I don’t think she’d 
be at all keen. Grass widowhood isn’t her line.” 

“I don’t suppose it would be; and you’ll be a 
lucky devil if you pull off the Chugga command. 
Think I’d go with you as sketch artist to the expedi¬ 
tion—offer my services free! But beware, -all the 
same; go slow with the fair widow. After two 
months in the wilderness she may be feeling a bit 
desperate.” 


CHAPTER IV 


A TEMPERATURE 


HE rain, which had all day descended in tor- 



X rents, ceased to fall at about four o’clock. By 
six the skies were blue and the radiance of an Eng¬ 
lish spring was creating new heavens and a new 
earth. Carfrae Caron, in the train, felt his spirits 
rise. After all, he was young—still on the sunny 
side of five-and-thirty—and it was years since he 
had seen the mountains of Cumberland rising from 
the rolling, sun-kissed mists. 

The exasperation of his irritated nerves began to 
subside. It had been a hateful business getting 
away. He had not foreseen Aster’s jealousy at 
being left behind, nor the difficulty of equipping 
Lance for the visit. There seemed to be neither 
suitable clothes nor trunks in which to pack them. 
This morning the boy himself, after indulging for 
the past few days in an outburst of wild spirits, had 
given way to causeless tears, had refused to eat, and 
during most of the journey had sulked, half asleep, 
awakening in his father’s mind the most dismal 
forebodings as to the impression he would produce 
at Grendon. 

When the mountains came into sight, however, 
Lance began to sit up and take notice. He gazed 


34 


A Temperature 35 

at the distant summits and asked their names. 
When at last the little local train into which they 
had changed set them down in the wild moorland, 
Caron was boyishly conscious of a sense of adven¬ 
ture, of affronting the unknown, the wild, the mys¬ 
terious. He wished, as he sprang lightly to the plat¬ 
form, that he was coming to meet youth—that Rita 
Knight were not so mature. He felt absurdly young, 
and looked it, from his clear eyes to his light¬ 
stepping feet, from his thick hair, untouched by 
grey, to his fair military moustache. 

As he glanced round he was approached by a tall 
lady chauffeur, correctly attired in mole-coloured 
corduroys, and wearing her livery with some 
distinction. 

“Is this Colonel Caron?” she asked frankly. 
And as he owned it: “I’m Valery Knight. Mother 
sent me to meet you. I’ve got the car outside. Will 
you please show the porter your luggage?” 

Caron shook hands. “Mrs. Knight’s sister-in- 
law?” he ventured, a trifle puzzled. 

She laughed. “Her daughter.” 

“Her daughter!” Carfrae was so surprised that 
he said nothing at all. His brain spun. The image 
of Rita Knight suddenly slipped away into a long 
alley of antiquity down which he had no intention 
of following. She must be older than he—older 
than he had any idea of! 

“Is this Lance?” went on Valery, friendly and 
conversational. “How are you?” She shook hands 
with the boy. “You can’t think how I’ve been look- 


36 His Second Venture 

ing forward to your coming,” she told him. “I like 
boys, and I never had a brother. Do you fish? 
There’s quite a decent trout-stream in our garden.” 

Still talking, she led the way to the smart little 
car. “You sit by me, and the colonel can go be¬ 
hind,” said she to Lance. “I’ve not long learned 
to drive, but I’ve been thoroughly taught. I do all 
my own running repairs.” 

They swung off northward towards Lowther, 
Caron ridiculously annoyed at being seated behind, 
as if she considered him an old gentleman. 

“Mother sent many apologies,” she presently told 
him over her shoulder. “She wanted to come her¬ 
self, but was playing off a round of golf. You’ll 
find her at home, I hope; Sir Otho Jerrold said he’d 
bring her in his car.” 

They rushed past a tantalizing glimpse of Hawes 
Water, and plunged into ferny lanes redolent of 
spring. Every breath he drew seemed to Caron to 
be definitely perfumed. So through a garden-gate 
that stood open to the doorway of a house set in 
clumps of daffodils and hyacinths, whereat stood 
Mrs. Knight, charmingly got up in a black and white 
golfing suit and smiling a cordial welcome. 

The room into which she led her guests was full 
of the scent of flowers and of pretty Indian things, 
the carven brass showing well against walls of dim 
blue. Although it was so late, tea stood awaiting 
the travellers, and in a low chair sat extended a 
long, bony man about five years older than Caron— 
a man with a short auburn beard and piercing red- 


A Temperature 37 

brown eyes, which flickered over the face of the 
new-comer as though fearing a rival. 

Rita introduced the two men, with a thrill of deep 
satisfaction. “Sir Otho,” she said, “is a godsend 
in this desert place, and he’s staying to dine to¬ 
night in order that you may have a man to talk to. 
He puts up with the vicar’s bridge and our cottage 
cookery!” 

“As you may guess, all that Mrs. Knight does is 
done to perfection,” responded Jerrold lazily. 
“Well, you had a wet journey, but I think the 
weather’s taking up. The wind has gone into the 
right quarter, the glass is rising, and the moon is 
waxing.” 

“Oh, how nice of you to prophesy that!” cried 
Rita. “This place is nothing in bad weather; we 
do want to show off a bit while Colonel Caron is 
here. Where are you off to, Val?” 

Val, her hand on Lance’s shoulder, paused at the 
door. 

“Just going to show Lance the pony and puppies 
before it gets dark.” 

The two whisked out and could be seen a minute 
later running past the window in animated con¬ 
versation. 

Caron half wished he were with them, for the 
triangle formed by the lady and her two cavaliers 
was not altogether congenial. Sir Otho, in rather 
a marked way, held the talk upon the subject of a 
golf tournament in which the new-comer could take 
no interest; and presently Caron murmured excuses 


38 His Second Venture 

and went to see that his son and heir was clean and 
had brushed his hair. 

He found Valery, dressed for the evening, just 
completing the unpacking and tidy bestowal of the 
boy’s things in his spotless little bedroom. Lance 
was chattering as if he had known her all his life. 
His cheeks were scarlet and his eyes very bright. 
Miss Kirby, who was hovering about, put in a shy 
word. She thought the child over-tired with his 
journey, and suggested tucking him up in bed and 
letting him have some supper there instead of 
coming downstairs. Lance, in a highly excited 
state, burst into tears at the suggestion, whereupon 
Val sat down beside him on the edge of the bed, 
hugged him, and promised not only to bring up his 
tray but to come and read him to sleep. To his 
father’s unmeasured surprise, he instantly fell in 
with this suggestion, and forthwith began pulling off 
his jacket. 

“But,” expostulated Caron, “I can’t let Miss 
Knight be bothered like this.” Kirby turned her 
wise old eyes to his. 

“She likes it better than any pleasure you could 
offer her,” said she gently. “She is full of love and 
has never had anybody upon whom to lavish it.” 

The father yielded, and went off to do his own 
changing with a feeling of being suddenly relieved 
of a load of responsibility. 

He descended to the drawing-room, well-groomed 
and fit, a rival to stir feelings of discomfort in the 
breast of Jerrold. Only Rita, however, was present 


A Temperature 39 

as he entered, and she turned from the glowing fire 
which lit up her soft grey draperies most becom¬ 
ingly, and held her hands to him with a gesture of 
more than cordiality. 

“Let me bid you welcome again,’’ she said. “You 
are part of my old life—the dear, vanished life of 
India! When you get back to Simla you will meet 
my ghost wandering about there!” 

“Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure that I 
am going back there,” he answered bluntly. “I am 
nursing a wild idea of going off into the wide on a 
pioneering expedition—if I can get my family 
looked after. By the by,” he added hastily, “Miss 
Kirby and Miss Knight have put Lance to bed; 
they think he’s overtired. I hope Miss Knight 
won’t consider herself bound to worry about the 
kid.” 

“She’s perfectly happy,” said Val’s mother 
swiftly, “with a boy, or a puppy, or even a rabbit” 

“Not many girls left of her type, are there?” 

“Not many—fortunately for their mothers. Oh, 
Colonel Caron, what am I to do with her? For, of 
course, I must face the fact that she’ll never marry.” 

He faced round. “Not marry! Why not?” 

“My dear man, look at her!” 

He hesitated. “Men don’t all marry for looks.” 

“Perhaps; but very, very few of you marry in 
spite of looks! Oh, you need not spare me! I have 
no illusions about my unfortunate girlie. She’s out 
of the running for the matrimonial stakes, but for¬ 
tunately she won’t be miserable in consequence. 


40 His Second Venture 

She is a contented creature. I think she was born 
to be the matron of an orphanage.” 

As Caron turned, upon the entrance of Sir Otho, 
he wished he could place this rara avis in charge of 
his! 

After dinner the vicar came in to make a fourth 
at the bridge table, and Miss Kirby, to her unutter¬ 
able relief and thankfulness, was left free to sit with 
her knitting, swiftly fashioning a jumper for Val. 

Rita had just leaned back with a delicate sigh. 
“Ah, partner, if you had but opened hearts, they 
would have been two down!”—and Mr. Hudson 
had irritably retorted, “Not at all; Jerrold had 
another trump;” to which her rejoinder came in¬ 
stantly, “Which made both my diamonds good; he 
would have had to lead a diamond,” when the door 
opened softly and Val put in her head. 

“Kirdles dear, do you know where Trickle is?” 
she asked. 

“My dear”—with a start—“what do you want 
Trickle for?” 

“For Lance. I am quite sure he has got a temp.,” 
said Val quietly. 

Her mother stared, turning her beautifully 
dressed head towards the door. “What on earth is 
Trickle?” 

Kirdles rose, driving her long pins through her 
ball. “Val’s baby-name for the clinical thermom¬ 
eter,” she replied as she hastened away. 

The colonel pushed back his chair. “I suppose,” 


A Temperature 41 

said he, in accents of bitter resentment against fate, 
“that I had better go and see.” 

“No, wait; it’s probably some nonsense of Val’s,” 
was the consoling rejoinder. And the deal pro¬ 
ceeded. 

In a few minutes, however, Miss Kirby returned, 
and her face was very grave. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I fear your little boy 
is really ill, Colonel Caron. He is 104, and his 
breathing seems much oppressed. Val is changing 
in order to go for the doctor. I don’t wish to alarm 
you, but it looks to me like pneumonia.” 


CHAPTER V, 


A NIGHT RUN 

C OLONEL CARON looked up swiftly, flung 
down his cards upon the table and left the 
room, followed most reluctantly by his hostess. 

Lance was a very handsome boy, in a somewhat 
effeminate style. He looked bewitching with his 
rumpled curls and scarlet colour as he lay tossing 
from side to side, breathing in hurried gasps from 
the top of the lung, and babbling short, disconnected 
sentences. 

“But, mother—surely, mother—if it was wrong 
to fight, my father wouldn’t be a soldier,” he wailed 
out. 

Caron coloured hotly. “Delirious,” he muttered, 
“poor little chap! All right, old man; don’t you 
worry!” 

“It’s the fever makes him talk,” murmured Miss 
Kirby gently. “He ought not to have travelled 
to-day.” 

The colonel made a quick sound of exasperation 
and helplessness. “My fault, I suppose. I saw he 
was a bit off colour,” he muttered; “but a man 
doesn’t understand children, and these have been 
encouraged to think about themselves till you never 
know whether a thing’s real or whether they’re 
spoofing you.” 

The door opened very quietly as he spoke. He 
42 


A Night Run 43 

looked up and saw Valery standing there, attired 
in her chauffeur’s garb. 

“I’m just off,” she said in lowered tones, “to fetch 
Dr. Bell. I’ll have him here in an hour. Mean¬ 
while, Kirdles knows what to do. I had pneumonia 
once, and she can make a poultice.” 

“Miss Knight, do you suppose I can permit this?” 
interjected Caron, rising and striding to the door. 
She laughed. 

“It isn’t a case of your permission, I’m afraid. 
The doctor has got to be fetched, and I know where 
he lives and can bring him back with me.” 

“Surely there’s someone you could send?” 

“Nobody but me can drive the car,” she answered, 
turning her back and walking off. 

He pursued. “Then I’m coming with you.” 

“Why, there isn’t a bit of need. Oh, I don’t 
know, though, perhaps there is. You could jump 
out and open gates for me, could you not? That 
saves time, and besides the two drive gates there’s 
one right across the road, half-way up the dale.” 

“Of course. Wait while I get a cap and a coat.” 

“Right! Then if you don’t mind coming round 
to the garage, we’ll start from there, to save time.” 

Of all things that Caron could never have fore¬ 
seen, this, that he should be rushing through the 
purple, star-sown night, with a girl at the wheel of 
the car, was surely the wildest. And such a girl! 
So unlike all one’s dreams of girlhood—so big and 
stout and matter-of-fact, so capable and business¬ 
like. 


44 His Second Venture 

As he was borne along he found himself finally 
bidding adieu in his heart to what he now realised 
had been his half-formed intention of marrying 
Val’s mother. Rita was evidently no matron for 
his orphan asylum; her attitude towards the present 
crisis told him that. Let her marry Jerrold. He 
would be her master; looked as if he might beat 
her, should occasion arise. 

“Why didn’t we roll up Lance in blankets and 
bring him with us?” he presently demanded. 
“There’s sure to be a hospital or a nursing home 
in Ulleswater.” 

“Oh, why do a risky thing like that? He’s all 
right at Grendon.” 

“But the trouble to your mother-” 

“Kirdles and I will see that mother is not 
troubled,” was the brief reply. He thought the 
girlish voice hardened as with scorn. 

“You’re a trump,” he murmured, and she 
laughed. 

“I’m glad you think so. I love boys, and Lance 
seems such a nice boy. I’m sorry I rushed him 
round so when he came, but I could not know he was 
ill. I’d never seen him before, and thought that 
high colour was natural, till Kirdles came and 
looked at him. I do hope it didn’t do him much 
harm; but he’ll make a splendid recovery in this 
air—you see if he doesn’t.” 

The simple assurance was encouraging. He felt, 
moreover, a curious confidence in this girl’s capacity. 
They were threading a lane so narrow that the 
brambles on either side brushed their wheels; yet 



A Night Run 45 

he watched without nervousness the radiance of the 
strong head-lights upon the fern-fronds and grass 
as they ran smoothly, though sinuously, on. 

“You drive well,” he presently told her. 

“This is a kind of pass—a short cut. Shouldn’t 
dare drive mother here; but I know these lanes like 
my alphabet.” 

“You like driving?” 

“Love it. Mother says I ought to have been a 
boy. I like tinkering with machinery. The village 
carpenter and I have just been fitting all our house 
up with electric bells. I would install light, too, 
if mother would buy an oil engine; but she won’t, 
because she doesn’t like the Grange—doesn’t want 
to stay here.” 

“You like it?” 

“Oh yes, it’s my home. Now that I’ve got this 
car I like it more than ever. Queer thing. I’ve 
always liked animals, gardens, children, machinery. 
I’ve always had the first two, now I’ve got ma¬ 
chinery—and Lance as well for a while at least. 
If it were not such a fiendish thing to say, I’d con¬ 
fess that I’m half glad he’s ill, as I shall have him 
all to myself.” 

“But I must engage a nurse.” 

“Nonsense. Here are Kirdles and I, one for 
night and one for day. Don’t you do it, unless 
Dr. Bell says it’s absolutely necessary. Here we are 
at his house. Open the gate, please.” 

As he dismounted to do her bidding, he sighed. 
This was the right stuff. A pity Nature had 
wrapped it in so unattractive a package! 


CHAPTER VI 


THE FATAL KISS 

I T was double pneumonia; aggravated, as might 
be expected, by the exposure of the patient to 
the draughts and fatigues of a long journey while 
in a feverish condition. 

There descended upon the Grange an atmosphere 
of anxiety—of hushed suspense—that rapidly 
deepened into alarm. 

Caron was ashamed of himself because he was 
conscious of so little affection for the sick child. 
Were there to be no recovery, he had a humiliating 
suspicion that Valery, the stranger, would feel it 
more keenly than did he, the father. His own 
son! ... A horrible thought. 

“What is the matter with me is that I’m a hard¬ 
hearted brute,” he told himself. “That’s probably 
why Blanche and I couldn’t hit it. I must be with¬ 
out natural affection.” 

Yet, with human inconsistency, he found himself 
condemning with disgust the unfeeling attitude of 
Rita, who kept aloof from it all. “I’m of no use 
at a child’s sick bed—never was—never had any 
practice,” she murmured. And Caron had to put 
constraint upon himself not to inquire of her what 
practice her young daughter could have had, which 
had turned her into an expert. 

46 


The Fatal Kiss 47 

He did not reflect that the contretemps was really 
very hard upon Rita. The last thing she had ex¬ 
pected was to have sickness in the house. She fled 
from it, and went golfing with Sir Otho. 

Pneumonia is an alarming complaint to watch. 
It needs both courage and resource in the nursing; 
the crisis, however, comes speedily. The whole 
thing is short and sharp. 

Dr. Bell, secure in his knowledge of Miss Kirby 
and her pupil, did not insist upon a professional 
nurse. 

When he came twice on the second day, and, after 
prolonged silent observation of his patient, made 
an excuse about distance and accepted Caron’s only 
half-serious offer of his own bed for the night, the 
father felt that the outlook must be grave indeed. 

By Miss Kirby’s advice, Mrs. Knight was not 
told that the doctor was remaining in the house. 
“She would only fuss because there is no room to 
give him,” said the good woman simply. “I’ll find 
you some rugs, Colonel Caron, and you must do as 
you can by the schoolroom fire.” 

“You know how gladly I will do anything to 
lessen your trouble,” was his fervent assurance. 

All that night he kept drowsy watch, dropping 
off in an arm-chair from time to time, then rousing 
himself to creep on tiptoe along the passage to the 
half-open door of the sick room, wherein, during all 
those long hours, the tension seemed never to relax. 

Val’s schoolroom was upstairs—snug, sunny and 
shabby; the room in which she and Kirdles had lived 


48 His Second Venture 

so comfortably together; in which canaries sang, 
puppies were reared, sick chickens nursed to health, 
story books read through long winter evenings. . . . 
The colonel took down a well-thumbed copy of 
“Black Beauty,” and smiled over some of Val’s 
childish marginal notes. 

At about four o’clock he returned from a fruitless 
reconnaissance. It revealed no change in Lance’s 
condition, which he knew to be critical. He was, 
however, so overcome with weariness that he threw 
himself down upon the soft old sofa, dragged over 
him the eider-down quilt with which Miss Kirby 
had supplied him, and yielded to overpowering 
somnolence. 

He was awakened by a low sound, which at first 
he could not identify. Was it the hard, terrible 
struggle for breath which had so distressed him on 
his last visit to his son? The noise persisted; and 
as he grew more fully awake he knew that someone 
was sobbing, quite close to where he lay. 

Throwing off his covering, he rose to his slippered 
feet and looked about him. 

Daylight was filtering into the room through the 
drawn blinds—the clear, sunlit radiance of a May 
dawning. The birds in the park were pouring out 
a regular Peer Gynt symphony of heart-moving 
music. 

Crouched and huddled into the big chair by the 
expiring fire was a figure in a dark red flannel 
dressing-gown, over which hung a long rope of 
glistening hazel hair. It was Valery, crying her 


The Fatal Kiss 49 

heart out, and evidently quite unaware of his own 
presence. 

His heart moved in his side as if physically. It 
was over, then. Lance was dead. 

His son. The heir of his name. To a normal 
father, such a boy would be the very apple of the 
eye. To him Lance had been little more than a 
nuisance—something to be disputed over with 
Blanche as to education and all kinds of training. 

And now he was gone. He had swiftly escaped 
into some wider world, from which, perhaps, he 
might look back and examine critically his father’s 
attitude towards him. 

Oh, marriage was the very devil . . . and 
fatherhood was worse. Nevertheless, it was he—he 
and not that big-hearted girl—who ought to be 
shedding those tears. 

Trembling with emotion, he bent down over her 
and laid his hand upon her shoulder. 

“Miss Knight—is it—is it—is my boy gone?” 

She sat upright with a great start, grasping the 
arms of her chair. She could not rise, because he 
was stooping right over her. Her face was flushed, 
tears lay upon her cheeks; in that moment she 
seemed transfigured into something which to him 
was very like beauty. 

“Oh, no— no! I’m crying for—happiness!” she 
gasped. “He’s asleep—his skin’s acting—at last, 
at last! Dr. Bell says he’ll—do—now!” 

“Thank God!” The words came from some 


50 His Second Venture 

fundamental deep in Caron’s being. “And I owe 
it to you. You plucky girl—to you!” 

As naturally as he might have kissed Aster, he 
took the quivering face of Valery between his hands, 
and, bending his handsome head, kissed her full 
upon the mouth. 

How does Nature send her messages from lips 
to the very centre of being? And, heaven pity us, 
why are such messages so often entirely misleading? 

The touch of a man’s lips, for the first time in 
all her virgin girlhood, was to Valery Knight, whole¬ 
some, simple, loving creature that she was, the 
Kiss of Awakening; significant as the salute of the 
prince to the sleeping maid in the wood. In the 
twinkling of an eye, this man who had been just 
Lance’s father, became an object of mingled terror 
and desire—a mystery, a fate—with power to set 
in motion feelings until that moment undreamed-of. 

Caron was so carried away by his gladness that 
he repeated his kiss—twice—thrice. 

Had he considered the matter, he would have felt 
serenely sure that the modern girl attaches no undue 
importance to a kiss; but he thought of no such 
thing in the spontaneity of his gratitude. “Let us 
rejoice together” was the unspoken language which 
accompanied his action. How was he to gauge the 
fathomless simplicity, the unsophistication of this 
girl? Her profound ignorance was mingled with 
normal, natural feminine instincts, wholly untouched 
until that moment. To her, the joyful mingling of 
emotion so new with an event so unprecedented, 


The Fatal Kiss 51 

brought for the first time in all her healthy life, the 
sensation of faintness. 

An ejaculation which was not quite a cry broke 
in upon his stammering delight. Jumping as if he 
had been shot, he wheeled round, to find the school¬ 
room door standing open and in the aperture the 
figure of Mrs. Knight, upon her face an expression 
in which bewilderment struggled with acid dis¬ 
pleasure. She supposed at first that her guest was 
kissing one of the maids. 

“Colonel Caron! Who and what-” She 

broke off, speechless, as Valery’s tall form reared 
itself up from the depths of the big chair. In the 
literal meaning of the term, Rita was shocked; that 
is to say, the discovery gave her such a shock that 
for a minute she could not speak, but leaned her 
forehead upon her white hand, which clutched the 
edge of the nursery door. 

She was looking her best, being one of those 
women with a talent for neglige. She wore a loose 
kimono of lavender crepe-de-chine, slightly embroid¬ 
ered in pale purple. Her boudoir cap had a bunch 
of violets in it. The contrast between her and her 
ungainly daughter had never been more cruelly em¬ 
phasised. 

“What,” said she faintly at last, passing her 
perfumed handkerchief over her lips, “what are you 
both doing here?” 

Caron had collected himself. “You have heard 
the great news, I expect?” he said, going towards 
her. “Lance is out of danger, and I—I was trying 


52 His Second Venture 

to thank Miss Knight, and to let her see how deeply 
I appreciate her—her heroic struggle for his life.” 

Rita critically, deliberately, surveyed his attire— 
a sleeping suit, with coat and trousers over it. He 
saw her gaze travel from his costume to the tumbled 
quilt upon the floor by the sofa, so evidently recently 
in use for sleeping purposes. 

“Dr. Bell has my bed,” the colonel put in hur¬ 
riedly, with a sudden feeling of acute embarrass¬ 
ment. “Miss Kirby told me I might camp out here; 
but I’ve been up most of the night.” 

“And has Valery been sharing your—vigil?” 

“No, mother.” Valery at last spoke for herself, 
but the ring of excitement in her voice was notice¬ 
able. “I did not know Colonel Caron was using this 
room. I’ve only just come. I—I rushed in here 
because I knew I was going to cry, and it would 
have—it might have—disturbed Lance if I had 
broken down in there.” 

“Mrs. Knight! Consider what I owe to her,” 
urged Caron appealingly. “My boy’s very life.” 

Rita’s frozen features thawed visibly. Into her 
face stole an expression of slowly dawning satis¬ 
faction as she began to realise what use she might 
make of the scene which she had surprised. 

“Quite so, Colonel Caron,” said she softly. “So 
long as you are duly sensible of what you owe my 
daughter.” 

She looked him in the eyes, and they faced one 
another silently. 

He was frightened for a moment, then relief 


The Fatal Kiss 53 

came. It was too silly—too preposterous. He shot 
a look at the bowed figure in the red dressing-gown, 
wiping its eyes with a large, serviceable handker¬ 
chief. “Valery-” he began. 

Rita moved relentingly. She felt that matters 
had better not be pushed further at that moment. 
In her daughter’s present unbecoming deshabille It 
were wiser to call a truce. She made a step for¬ 
ward. “Come to me, Val,” said she in her sweetest 
tones, and Val rushed turbulently to her side. Rita 
passed her slim white arm about the heaving red 
flannel shoulders. “Come, you must be worn out, 
girlie. Let mother put you to bed for a while. 
Colonel Caron, I’ll offer my congratulations on your 
boy’s recovery later; my girl mustn’t break down 
as a result of her nursing.” 

“By no means,” he stammered, holding the door 
for their exit and closing it again behind them. 

“Well, I’m hanged,” he muttered, flinging himself 
down on his sofa and preparing to sleep again for 
a while. “Just because I gave the child a kiss! I 
was so worked up, it seemed natural enough. . . . 
But by all that’s chivalrous it would take a good 
deal to induce me to repeat the experiment in cold 
blood. My word! One would need some courage 
for that 1” 



CHAPTER VII 
caron’s intentions 

I N less than three hours after this emotional 
episode they were all breakfasting together— 
that is to say, Dr. Bell, the colonel, Mrs. Knight 
and Miss Kirby. 

The eyes of the last named, as she nervously 
handled her tea and coffee equipage, were very pink, 
and her nose swollen—phenomena which Caron 
attributed to her tender feelings for his boy. He 
did not guess the cutting reprimand she had re¬ 
ceived, first for allowing the doctor to remain in the 
house, unknown to Mrs. Knight, and next for fail¬ 
ing to warn Valery that the schoolroom was in 
occupation. 

She made apologies for Val’s absence from table. 
“She begged to have breakfast in bed, for a great 
treat,” she explained. “She has not closed her eyes 
all night, or last night either, for that matter; and 
now that the crisis is over she feels the reaction. 
Mrs. Pearce is watching the dear little patient while 
I have my breakfast, and will call me if there is any 
change. I will go and relieve her very shortly.” 

“I’m glad Val isn’t present,” observed Dr. Bell 
genially. “It sets one free to say what one thinks 
of her. You ought to let her take up nursing as a 
54 


Caron’s Intentions 55 

profession, Mrs. Knight. She’s quite wonderful— 
a gift!” 

“But, then, she does so many other things well,” 
chimed in Caron eagerly. “Look at the way she 
drives her car—and the way she has fitted this house 
with electric bells.” 

“And you haven’t seen her on horseback,” put in 
Kirdles, delighted to hear her nursling thus praised. 
“She is not able to ride now, unfortunately, because 
old Toby is not up to her weight; but as a child she 
went everywhere with the hounds. She’s her 
father’s own daughter.” 

“Indeed she is,” sighed Rita; “I can’t find any¬ 
thing in her that reminds me in the least of myself.” 

“No,” said the doctor deliberately, contemplating 
the dainty charm of the mistress of the house, “she 
is certainly quite unlike her mother.” 

“Kirby must take all the credit of her,” laughed 
Rita; and her laugh was half a sneer. 

Caron said boldly: “When you’re wanting a job, 
Miss Kirby, please apply to me.” 

He was unprepared for the effect of his words. 
Miss Kirby started quite violently. “Oh, did you 
mean that, Colonel Caron? No, I suppose you 
didn’t,” said she with a gasp. 

“Dear Miss Kirby is, as a matter of fact, on the 
look out for a post,” said Rita silkily. “As you 
may suppose, she has completed her work in Val¬ 
ery’s case.” 

Caron, tossing down his napkin, turned in his 
chair to face the agitated Kirdles. 


56 His Second Venture 

“So? Is this possible? Then you and I must 
have a talk, please, at your earliest convenience, 
Miss Kirby.” 

“I know she’ll be delighted, at any time that suits 
you, colonel,” put in Rita with vivacity. Her spirits 
were rising fast. To get rid of Kirby—to have her 
substantial inelegance out of the way—would be 
half the battle . . . and then there was the scene 
of this morning to be worked judiciously, and who 
could tell what might not eventuate? 

She was perfectly well aware that Jerrold would 
never become her suitor unless or until she was 
without encumbrances. She knew as well as if he 
had said so in words that he would never have 
Valery as an inmate of his house. 

But if she could marry Val to Carfrae—ah, what 
a revenge! All the spite of the small-minded 
woman towards the man who has resisted her efforts 
to marry him urged her to try and bring this off. 
She gazed under her lashes at Caron’s hard-cut 
mouth, and realised that it would not be easy. She 
must tread warily—drive him with a very loose 
rein; but if her wit could compass it, driven he 
should be. 

Valery and the colonel met next at Lance’s bed¬ 
side. It was but a momentary glimpse, as far as 
the father was concerned. He was allowed just 
to bend down and touch the pallid forehead of the 
patient with his lips, murmuring something about 
“Cheerio!” which to himself sounded woefully 


Caron’s Intentions 57 

forced, but was enough to bring a quivering smile to 
the lips of the sick boy. 

Valery sat the other side of the bed, her eyes 
carefully lowered. Her sociability, her camaraderie 
seemed to have vanished. The boyish lack of re¬ 
serve, the friendliness which had in some sort atoned 
for her lack of sex attraction, no longer existed. 
What might in a beauty have been a new and ador¬ 
able shyness was in her an almost grotesque 
gaucherie . 

It is difficult to describe the discomfort which 
Caron suffered in the course of the next few days, 
even though he had attacked Miss Kirby and se¬ 
cured her promise to come to Archwood and see 
what she could do with his menagerie. 

Rita was, as usual, a gracious hostess, and would 
hear none of the apologies he felt bound to offer 
for what he had let her in for. She assured him that 
the trouble was nothing, since Lance would recover, 
and that his father was free to stay as long as he 
liked; but for all that, she found means to make 
him feel himself so atrociously de trop that, could he 
have put forward any semblance of an excuse, he 
would have fled. 

Not being allowed as yet in the sickroom for more 
than a few minutes at a time, he was fain to go golf¬ 
ing with his hostess and Sir Otho; and they had to 
avail themselves of the baronet’s car, since their 
own chauffeuse was otherwise occupied. Caron was 
wholly unaccustomed to the sensation of being com¬ 
pletely number three. At the club they secured an 


58 His Second Venture 

irascible old gentleman, a most indifferent player, to 
make up their foursome, and drearily went over the 
course, in a drizzle of rain, which, ever threatening, 
never came on freely enough to stop play. 

If Rita imagined that she was furthering her own 
cause by driving Caron to the verge of flight, she 
was for once utterly mistaken. She soon began to 
realise this for herself, and to decide that she must 
put all her money upon Sir Otho. In his masculine 
density, Caron had but a vague suspicion of the new 
plan which had formed itself in her mind at the 
schoolroom door in the dawn. 

Various hints made him uneasy, and he was fur¬ 
ther annoyed by the manner in which Valery fled 
from him, whisking out of sight the moment he ap¬ 
peared and avoiding conversation. 

Enlightenment came a week after the crisis in 
Lance’s illness. They had intended to go golfing, 
but the rain had set in steadily and prevented it. 
Sir Otho was on the bench at Penrith; and it looked 
as if, for the first time that week, Caron would be 
let in for a tete-a-tete with Rita, when the door-bell 
rang and Mrs. Hudson was ushered in. 

The vicar’s wife belonged to that class of women 
whose society seldom gives pleasure to anybody. 
Carfrae, however, felt inclined to welcome her that 
day. She was an indefatigable caller, having no 
interests of her own and being entirely dependent 
upon her neighbours’ concerns to supply the spice 
of life. Needless to say, the tragically sudden and 
serious illness of Lance had been a godsend to her, 
and she had never wearied in her inquiries. 


Caron’s Intentions 59 

That afternoon she felt herself to be really in 
luck. Her own husband was also on the Bench, 
and instead of being compelled to go home to a soli¬ 
tary and scanty tea, she had caught Mrs. Knight 
and her handsome visitor, and was seated in a room 
where still a fire burned, May though it was—de¬ 
lightful in the cold, sleety afternoon. 

“And how’s the dear little boy?” she asked as 
she took her tea-cup from Caron’s listless hand and 
helped herself to a cake with sugar icing. “So 
pleased to hear how well he gets on. Valery quite 
shines as a nurse, does she not, Colonel Caron?” 

He assented cordially to this. “Miss Knight has 
been indescribably good to my boy. I feel quite un¬ 
able to express my gratitude. She has not spared 
herself.” 

“You must have been terribly anxious?” 

“For forty-eight hours we did not know how 
things would go. The doctor remained in the house 
all night.” 

“And poor little Val,” chimed in Rita’s soft 
voice, “after a sleepless watch, strung up to the 
highest point, quite broke down; and I don’t know 
what would have happened had not Colonel Caron 
been at hand to support her.” 

“What!” cried Mrs. Hudson, with a famishing 
kind of eagerness; “to support her? Was she faint¬ 
ing then?” 

Rita laughed low and mischievously. “I think 
Colonel Caron could tell you that better than I can; 
I only know that I found them-” She paused 



60 His Second Venture 

a moment, enjoying the man’s crimson face and tight 
mouth. “You see,” she began again more gravely, 
“I also was terribly anxious. The colonel and I 
are old friends—close friends, may I say, colonel? 
Yes; and I felt that for his son and heir to die in 
my house would, as it were, stain or poison our 
friendship. He would never like to come to the 
house again.” 

“Oh, quite so, quite so—yes.” 

“Well, I got up in the dawn, slipped out of my 
room, crept softly along to the schoolroom, where 
the colonel had been sitting up that night-” 

“Mrs. Hudson, your cup is empty,” broke in 
Caron sharply. “By the way, I hope the vicar got 
that map I left at your house for him yesterday?” 

“Oh, yes, yes!” Mrs. Hudson thrust her cup into 
his hands, and held up her own as a sign that he 
must not interrupt this thrilling narration. “And 
what did you see, Mrs. Knight?” 

Rita chuckled softly. “I saw the dawn, not only 
of day, but of my girlie’s romance, Mrs. Hudson! 
Oh, I admit I had not been altogether blind; but 
Val seems such a child, and I did not take into con¬ 
sideration his quite reprehensible good looks and 
their effect upon my youthful novice! I fear that 
at first I was not at all pleased. I could not have 
my precious one-and-only played with. You know 
what a scar that leaves—a lifelong scar. But 
Colonel Caron reassured me. . . . Oh, my dear 
lady, please, please understand that there is nothing 
—yet! This dear man well understands that, with 



Caron’s Intentions 61 

innocence and inexperience so profound, he must go 
very slow. So far she is absolutely unconscious, and 
she must not be hurried; I will not have it. But I 
know I am very safe with him.” She smiled up 
angelically into his savage, murderous face. 

“Mrs. Knight exaggerates, I fear,” he growled, 
like a big dog snarling at a cheeky pup. “Miss 
Knight regards me as her father’s contemporary. I 
would not be so fatuous as to suppose that she could 
misinterpret my gratitude for what she has done for 
me. 

“Her devotion to your child will make everything 
easy, won’t it?” cried Mrs. Hudson, waving his 
denial down the wind ecstatically. “From the bot¬ 
tom of my heart I wish you luck! Valery is a most 
uncommon girl; the vicar and I have always said 
so. To see her with her Girl Guides is a revela¬ 
tion . . . with children of her own-” 

“Oh, fie, Mrs. Hudson, this is going much too 
fast; we shall begin to regret having made you our 
confidante,” gurgled Rita. “Now, be sure and re¬ 
member that this is strictly entre nous . Not a word, 
even to Mr. Hudson. Everyone must shut their 
eyes and their ears for the present.” 

“Until when?” cried the disappointed visitor. 

“Until Colonel Caron decides that the moment 
has come for him to explain the reason why he 
kissed my daughter in the small hours and a dress¬ 
ing-gown,” smiled Rita archly. 

Mrs. Hudson laughed loudly, rising from her 
chair. One could see her intention of going to 



62 His Second Venture 

spread hints of her news in every conceivable direc¬ 
tion, propelling her, almost as it were, unwillingly 
from her comfortable seat and the cosy fireside. 
She took her leave and hurried off, and Rita saw 
her to the door, returning to find Caron standing 
in the window, with hunched shoulders and brooding 
look. He strode up to the hearth and confronted 
her. His voice as he spoke was heavy with a cold 
rage, which all but succeeded in daunting Rita. 

“That woman will put it all over the place that 
I am going to marry Valery.” 

She shook off her fear of him and faced him with 
an air of gentle, deprecating surprise. 

“Very likely. . . . Are you not going to marry 
her?” She paused, as though an unwelcome 
thought for the first time intruded itself. “Was my 
first impression right?” Her tone had changed, and 
grew haughty. “Were you really venturing to take 
liberties with my daughter? Ah, I forgot. You 
thought yourself safe. She has no father to take 
her part.” 

A hundred retorts leapt to his lips; he bit them 
back. He was far too furious to trust himself to 
speak to her—she, who was his hostess, in whose 
house his boy had passed through the valley of the 
shadow. If he opened his lips he knew that he 
should say what he would regret all the rest of his 
life. 

He turned on his heel and left the room 
precipitately. 


CHAPTER VIII 


MAN PROPOSES 

M AY was showing for once in a way what May 
can be in the North Countrie. The woods 
about Grendon Grange were a smother of bird 
cherry, the pale green plumage of the larches waved 
against a background of black firs like laughing 
maidens among dark, stern men. The hawthorn 
perfume drifted on the air, the ferns were thrusting 
up little clenched green fists; lords and ladies sat 
within their wayside shrines, the meadows were 
deep in cowslips. 

Lance lay under the veranda upon an invalid 
couch, out in the air for the first time. 

As his father carried him carefully downstairs 
he had chattered eagerly, pouring out the account 
of a wonderful new game which Val had taught him 
to play. You chose a couple of cricket teams, each 
of you selecting an eleven from the best-known 
names. Having decided the order of their innings, 
their places in the field, and so on, you took a book 
at random from a shelf and turned its pages one by 
one, the fate of each ball being decided by the letter 
which happened to come first upon the page. Each 
letter of the alphabet stood for something definite, 
such as a run, a bye, a boundary hit, a not out, a 
l.b.w., and so on. 


63 


64 His Second Venture 

This thrilling pastime, varied by games of old 
maid and halma, had kept the patient good and 
happy for hours on end. 

Val followed them down the stairs, laden with 
rugs and cushions. The colonel took them from 
her with a very friendly smile. He was not to know 
that his smile set her heart thumping so heavily 
that she feared lest he might hear it. 

She was looking her best that morning. Only 
the preceding week the oculist had decided that the 
glasses she had worn for so long, in order to correct 
a slight astigmatism, had served their purpose and 
might be discarded. They no longer disfigured her 
clear eyes, and her mother, besides supplying her 
with suitable frocks, had arranged her hair in more 
becoming fashion. She was still clumsy, too big, 
lamentably immature, but she was no longer ridicu¬ 
lous nor actively unpleasing to behold. In fact, for 
anyone with eyes to see it, there was the promise of 
beauty in her face, the texture of whose skin was 
as fine as soft water and the Westmorland air could 
make it. 

“You’re turning yourself into a slave to this good- 
for-nothing little beggar,” said Caron as he relieved 
her of her burden. 

“She isn’t a slave,” cried Lance indignantly. 
“She’s as keen on cricket as I am. Why, she plays 
on the Green every evening with the Girl Guides, 
and last season they beat a Boy Scout team that was 
staying at Whitehaven. London chaps, of course, 
but still the girls must be pretty hot stuff—what?” 


Man Proposes 65 

“We’re not so bad,” said Val candidly, busy as 
she spoke in touching up and arranging Lance’s 
couch for his comfort. “We had a pro. from Car¬ 
lisle to give us some lessons last season. Now, 
Lance, on your honour not to kick off the rug. 
Shall I read you the ‘House of the Wolf’?” 

“Right-o, old thing! I’ll be as quiet as a new-born 
lamb.” 

“Lance,” said his father, “what a way to talk 
to Miss Knight!” 

“Miss Knight indeed! You don’t seem to under¬ 
stand that Val and I are pals for life. Oh, Val, how 
I wish I could have you always! Of course, it’s 
very jolly to think of Kirdles coming down to Arch- 
wood, though I’m afraid Aster’ll give her a pretty 
thin time; but if only you could come too! Father, 
couldn’t Val come and stay with us a good sensible 
long visit—all summer, in fact?” 

Colour which she could not subdue surged into 
Val’s face. Caron did not at first notice it, for he 
was replying quite calmly. He felt that Mrs. 
Knight would have to be invited to Archwood, and 
he had dim hopes that under the management of 
Kirdles the house might be got into something like 
order for the event. Consequently he said: 

“Well, I hope she will come, as you suggest— 
and that before so very long either. If she doesn’t, 
it won’t be for lack of an invitation.” Raising his 
eyes to smile at Val, he saw that hot, painful blush 
and wished that he could recall his words. “How- 


66 His Second Venture 

ever,” he added awkwardly, “there is not much time 
how before I go out again.” 

“You won’t want me when you can run about 
again and do as you like,” Val told the boy, stepping 
bravely into the breach, but not finding it easy to 
speak lightly. “Boys don’t want girls always after 
them.” 

“Humph! From what I’ve noticed, grown-up 
men do, though! I shall marry you, Val, as soon 
as I come of age. Then you won’t be able to get 
away from me; you’ll have to come and live with 
me, wherever I am.” 

“Wait for you eight or nine years! Miss Knight 
will be married ages before that,” said Caron, once 
more putting his foot into it helplessly. If it had 
been possible to grow even redder, Val would have 
done so; but still she kept her head enough to divert 
Lance’s attention from this difficult subject. 

“Do you know, Lance, that Dr. Bell says if he 
finds you none the worse to-morrow for having been 
out to-day I may take you a run in the car?” 

“My hat! Then we’ll go and see Windermere, 
shall we? And you’ll show me the Lion and the 
Lamb? And you’ll get into that jolly rig of yours 
that you had on the day you met us? I tell you, 
the minute I saw you I said to myself, ‘That’s the 
stuff to give ’em!’ I’ll tell you something else as 
well. I believe you could get upsides with Aster.” 

“Get what?” 

“That’s what old nurse used to say—our nurse 
that we had when we were little. She used to say 


Man Proposes 67 

what Miss Aster needed was somebody who’d be 
upsides with her. You’re the only person I’ve seen 
yet that would be. Aster’s pretty fresh, but I guar¬ 
antee that if it came to grips between you, you’d 
end on top.” 

“Lance, how you do chatter I” muttered his 
father irritably. 

“You’re not to talk any more now,” added Val. 
“You are to have a nap. I’ll read you to sleep, and 
then I must run down and feed my chickens. 
Kirdles has been doing it for me, but it is such a 
climb for her dear old legs.” The words recalled 
to her another thought. She addressed Caron 
eagerly. “I hope you have a car at Archwood,” 
said she, “or a trap of some kind for my poor old 
darling. She walked half over the map of England 
with my father when he waJ a boy, and she has 
walked with me for years and years. Now, though 
she’s very efficient, her walking days are over.” 

“I’ll get a car,” said Caron at once. “My wife 
wouldn’t have one—said they jarred her spine; but 
I’ll buy one before I go back to India.” 

“How nice of you,” she answered gratefully, 
taking up the book to read to Lance. 

Caron held out his hand for it. “Give it to me. 
I can read him to sleep as well as you can, and you 
can go and see to your poultry. Show me how far 
you have got, and I’ll carry on.” 

“I’m sleepy,” said Lance unexpectedly. “Let me 
alone here and I shall doze off. You go with Val, 
father, and carry those great tins and baskets. She’s 


68 His Second Venture 

always lugging about something that’s too heavy 
for her.” 

^ Caron stared at his son in dumb surprise. This 
unwonted consideration could be the result of 
nothing but a very strong affection. He looked at 
Val, w r ho bent down and dropped a kiss among the 
curls of Lance’s head. 

“On my honour not to kick the clothes off, Val,” 
said the boy, turning away his head and closing 
his eyes. 

“Doesn’t care to have me read to him,” reflected 
Caron, with some regret. He shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders and turned to Val. “Now, Miss Knight, let 
me be useful for once.” 

After some polite demur Val went into the gar¬ 
den-room, sorted out what she needed, and together 
they descended the hillside, down the grassy park, 
in full view of the vicarage windows, where indeed 
Mrs. Hudson was seated in ambush, watching with 
all her eyes. 

The colonel was silent, for he was reflecting. 
Rita’s move, in telling Mrs. Hudson the story of his 
most harmless escapade, showed him that she felt 
that she had her claws into him, and that he could 
not retire from the scene without some kind of 
apology passing from himself to the girl. He be¬ 
lieved Valery to be quite undeveloped, quite pure- 
minded, and no more likely than he was himself to 
attach any serious meaning to the episode. He felt 
quite certain that his own light and laughing apology 
would be received with a smile; and he pictured the 


Man Proposes 69 

relief with which he could go to Rita and say that 
all was well—that, as he had always assumed, Val 
looked upon herself as his son’s contemporary and 
not his own, and that she had readily accepted his 
apology for having acted upon an excusable impulse, 
not remembering that she was of an age to resent 
a kiss. 

He was inclined to think that the present moment 
was a suitable one for settling the annoying little 
business. 

He wished to get it done with, so that he could 
take Lance and himself away; and he knew he 
would draw a breath of thankfulness when he was 
out of the house. He had grown to detest Rita, 
and the thought of poor Val was an embarrassment; 
but one good thing he had secured as the result of 
his visit—he was going to have Miss Kirby! 

Only one little drop of apprehension lay deep in 
his mind. He had no idea what Rita had said to 
her daughter, but he did know full well that Val’s 
manner to himself had completely changed. Sup¬ 
pose—his blood ran cold—suppose that Rita had 
put ideas into the girl’s head? 

What a fool he had been just now to speak of her 
coming to Archwood in the near future—to tell 
Lance that she would be married long before he 
grew up. When he recalled her heavy blushes a 
little needle of discomfort ran through him. 

However, the sooner it was over the better. He 
could so easily disabuse the mind of this good- 
tempered simpleton of any misplaced ambitions. 


70 His Second Venture 

She was a good sort, and, thank God, honest. Not 
in the least like her mother. 

When they arrived at the hill’s foot they were 
out of range of windows. There was a thick screen 
of trees beyond the brook, which ran musically by 
the boundary of the big wire fowl-run. 

The whole thing had been Val’s last birthday 
present from her father. She had the latest devices 
in hen-houses, trap-nests, and so on; and the brook 
had been widened and deepened in one place to 
accommodate her ducks. 

Caron helped her to collect the eggs from the 
nests, watched the scattering of the food, even lifted 
the ducklings’ coop for her, that it might be moved 
upon fresh grass. He heard also some rather sur¬ 
prising statistics of the profitable nature of the poul¬ 
try-keeping, remembering the bills handed to him 
by his stableman for the purpose of purchasing food 
and other necessaries. 

At last Val’s tin dishes and the capacious pockets 
of her apron were alike empty. They turned from 
the busily pecking throng of birds and began to 
move slowly along the brookside. 

It was now or never. “Miss Knight,” he began 
suddenly, “for days past I’ve been owing you an 
apology.” 

Val started, then hung her head and murmured 
something inarticulate. It was evident that she 
knew to what he referred. 

“Yes. I find that your mother takes quite a 
serious view of what I hope you may have regarded 


Man Proposes 71 

more indulgently.” (What a stilted ass I am; why 
can’t I talk to her naturally? he asked himself with 
inward irritation.) Her attitude was so crushed, 
she seemed suddenly so utterly cast down that his 
sole anxiety was not to humiliate her. Some com¬ 
pliment, some conventionally pretty thing, suitable 
from a middle-aged man to a young girl, that was 
the idea! He cleared his throat: “You naturally 
do not altogether realise the—er—the charm of 
youth to a man of my—er—age. So I trust you’ll 
be forgiving. I—er—it is hardly necessary for me 
to explain that, when I yielded to temptation and 
kissed you the other morning, I was not such a con¬ 
ceited ass as to expect—to hope—that you could or 
would reciprocate my feeling.” 

Thus with three empty words he decided his 
own fate. 

What he said reanimated the girl as though it 
had been a draught of champagne. She coloured 
richly, her lips parted, she began to tremble. Pro¬ 
foundly moved, she stood there before him in all 
her pathetic rawness, her inarticulate, hardly-born 
womanhood. “Your feeling ?” she gasped, spring¬ 
ing at the word as at a life-line. “Ah, tell me— 
please—what did you feel for me?” 

The man stepped back aghast as those words of 
passionate craving fell upon his ear. What had he 
done? He was making an apology, glib, formal, 
more than half contemptuous; and he found himself 
staring into the face of something very like tragedy. 

In his inconceivable blundering he had allowed 


72 His Second Venture 

her to suppose that he had fallen in love with her. 
She was pleading for certainty—wild to know that 
she was not mistaken—that this wonderful thing 
was true. The intensity of her eagerness trans¬ 
figured her as it had done in the dawnlight in the 
old schoolroom. 

She was looking at him with the eyes of a wood¬ 
land creature caged, which sees its deliverer place 
his hand upon the cage door. 

How could he undeceive her without brutality? 

He was so taken aback that he could hardly 
speak, and his voice might well have been that of a 
lover very uncertain of his reception, as he muttered 
something about his gratitude, his affectionate 
gratitude. 

“I—to tell you the truth—I felt almost as though 
you were my own child,” he faltered shamefacedly, 
saying to himself: “That ought to do the trick— 
surely that’ll finish it—the paternal touch-” 

No such thing. 

“Your own child!” cried Val with a sob. All in 
a moment her feelings overcame her. It seemed to 
her that the affection she craved was hers at last, 
and she flung out two shaking, red hands, not very 
clean, in surrender that was almost abject. “Well, 
so I am your own child—your own, if you want 
me! . . , You know—that morning you kissed me 
—I felt—oh, I can’t tell you what I felt, because 
it’s too wonderful, too holy . . . . You see, I have 
been so utterly lonely, till you and Lance came—so 
dreadfully lonely.” 



Man Proposes 73 

“My dear girl, what are you saying?” In his 
utter horror he fell back upon the one plea which 
he felt free to urge. “I couldn’t accept such a sac¬ 
rifice. Surely you see that. Val, you’re too young, 
and I’m far too old for you. You’re nothing but 
a child, and I couldn’t make you happy-” 

“Oh, it doesn’t take much to make me happy,” 
she sobbed, smiling through her tears. She assumed 
all his disclaimers to be due to depth of feeling, 
modesty, generosity. He saw that she utterly mis¬ 
took him, and he knew that it was his own fault. 
He had bungled the whole situation; and he had a 
horrible suspicion that he had bungled it past hope 
of a remedy. 

Val had dived into her pocket for a handkerchief 
to wipe away her tears, and she was proceeding to 
redden her nose by a vigorous polishing. “I can’t 
believe it,” she sobbed out. “It’s like a dream, 
that you and Lance should come into my life just 
at this crisis, when I was so mi-miserably unhappy: 
when I found out that mother not only didn’t care 
for me, but that she had never cared for father, 
either!” 

“My dear girl-” 

“-You know it’s true. Even Kirdles has to 

admit it now. She’s going to marry again—that 
man—I hate him—and I should be all alone if it 
wasn’t—if it wasn’t for— you!” 

He gazed upon her with a helpless kind of 
despair. 

“You’re deceiving yourself,” he said harshly. 





74 His Second Venture 

“Can you really think you would be happier with 
me—me whom you hardly know—than you are 
here, in your own home?” 

“It’s not my own home. Mother’s going to sell 
it. She told me so ! It’s no use my begging her, for 
she doesn’t love me, she thinks of nothing but looks 
. . . and yet”—with a rainy smile—‘‘people’s ideas 
of looks are so different, aren’t they? Lance thinks 
I’m the best-looking girl he ever saw. And now~ 
you—you-” 

Once more those pathetic hands were extended 
in absolute confidence to him. It was the trust of 
the stray lamb hastening to the shepherd, hoping 
to be safely enfolded. 

Caron, inexperienced with women, for all his 
thirty-four years, was completely non-plussed. He 
could have held his own against a siren. Anyone 
attempting to fool him would have received short 
shrift. But how could he pole-axe this bleating 
refugee, making so directly for the shelter of his 
arms? As was most evidently expected of him, he 
took the hot hands in his own, drew their owner 
slightly towards him, and, with considerable reluc¬ 
tance, repeated his offence of ten days back. Coldly, 
with definite distaste, he kissed her forehead, and 
she instantly dropped her head on his shoulder and 
shook with sobs. 

“Come, come,” he murmured inanely. He could 
think of nothing else to say. He was in what he 
himself termed a blue funk. That which the 
mother’s wiles and the mother’s malice combined 



Man Proposes 75 

could not effect, the girl’s innocence, her aston¬ 
ishingly facile surrender, had brought about 
irretrievably. 

Taking her handkerchief from her he began to 
dry her eyes. She looked up with a smile of almost 
fatuous adoration. 

“Oh you dear!” she murmured. 

“Here, Val, steady on,” he gasped, terrified. 
“You are carried away for the moment, you don’t 
know what you’re talking about. When you think 
it over you’ll see that you’re quite out of sympathy 
with me. You’re young and I’m not. You’re facing 
a prospect that would freeze the blood of most 
women—the herding of three mismanaged step¬ 
children. Be warned, my dear, in time. Don’t fling 
away your future like this. Let’s be great friends; 
come and stay at Archwood, with Miss Kirby to 
chaperon you, and forget all that has just passed.” 

“Oh,” she cried, flinging her arms about his neck, 
“you are good and generous, but you don’t under¬ 
stand ! You have no idea how much I would do for 
you, how much I have to give you!” 

“Val!” he cried sharply, “I won’t take it! I 
swear I won’t! I can’t!” 

She laughed quite gaily, every word he spoke 
seemed to increase the completeness of her delusion. 
“You’ll just have to take it—you dear!” said she 
triumphantly; and the unhappy man perceived that 
he would. 


CHAPTER IX 


RITA MAKES HER ARRANGEMENTS 

B UT you are joking, dear lady—pulling my 
leg! No, no.. If you want to make a fool 
of me try to invent something within the range of 
possibility. This, frankly, isn’t.” 

“However impossible, it’s true. Impossible 
things often are.” Rita removed her faultless shoe 
from the fender-stool and her slim hand from the 
mantel-piece. Turning, she faced Sir Otho with an 
expression he could not interpret. “At least, I have 
my information from the colonel himself.” 

“You are telling me seriously that Caron —Caron 
—has offered marriage to Valery?” 

“He has, and she has jumped down his throat 
with that alacrity which seems to be the monopoly 
of the very young girl.” 

“Girl! But your daughter’s not a girl—she’s not 
even a human being of any age! She’s an Amoeba 
—a Zoosperm—an amorphic rudiment floating in 
chaos-” 

“Sir Otho! You are speaking of my daughter.” 
He broke off, staring at her in a sort of angry 
amazement. “Your daughter,” he muttered. “I 
shall never understand how you came to marry 
Knight.” 


76 



Rita Makes Her Arrangements 77 

“Tom was all right,” she cried eagerly. “A fine 
fellow”—she made a gesture towards her husband’s 
photo—“you can see f° r yourself that he was. 
Only he came of a family that doesn’t make pretty 
women. I married him before I saw my sisters-in- 
law. . . . Poor Val is every inch a Knight, and 
that old idiot Kirby has exaggerated, cultivated it 
in her! However,” she laughed under her breath. 
“Need we lament? She is already appropriated. 
Solid worth has found a customer, little as you may 
understand it.” 

“I never disputed the solidity,” he muttered, 
scratching his head and screwing up his features. 
“But you ask me to believe that a man, sane like 
Caron—handsome like Caron—well-off like Caron 
—could look at the Amoeba while you were here for 
him to gaze upon?” 

“Oh, well—perhaps you assume too much.” 
Turning away with a smile, she bent her head so 
that he could not see her face. “Three stepchildren 
are an obstacle that not every woman would leap, 
you know.” 

Otho Jerrold’s eyes kindled. “So that’s it, is it? 
I’m enlightened. Came here for what he couldn’t 
get, and in order to even up with you, snatched at 
the heart of the Amoeba! No doubt she proffered 
it to him on a charger.” 

“You are not a bit polite to my girlie. Val is a 
treasure—I have it on the authority of all those 
who know her best. She is in her element with 
little boys, and will make an ideal stepmother. 


78 His Second Venture 

Meanwhile, my poor head is in a whirl, for he goes 
out again next month, and they must be married 
at once.” 

“Where is he now?” 

“He left us yesterday, almost immediately after 
making his announcement—to break his news at 
Archwood. Judging by what I have heard, I 
shouldn’t wonder if his eldest girl were to put an 
end to her papa’s second venture with a carving- 
knife.” 

“You stand there and talk about marriage for the 
Amoeba? Marriage! There ought to be an Act of 
Parliament to stop it. She is about ten years under 
the age of consent.” 

“Now you are talking wild nonsense. She is 
nineteen.” 

“Well, I suppose you ought to know—but if that 
is true I should like to know how old you were 
when she was born.” 

“If you have impudence enough to ask that you 
have impudence enough for anything! But I was 
seventeen.” She gave a great sigh. “I, if you like, 
was under the age of consent. No girl of seventeen 
ought to be allowed to marry.” 

She sank down beside him on the sofa, and he 
took up one of her hands, stroking it gently. “Poor 
little soul!” 

“Well, as it happened, I was all right, because 
Tom was one of the best. But, oh! When one 
reflects how utterly a girl at that age is in the power 
of the man-” 



Rita Makes Her Arrangements 79 

“What about your Amoeba ?’ 1 

“I don’t exactly know what an Amoeba is, but 
you are rude to call my daughter names. Oh, she 
will be all right, I have no fears. Whatever her lot, 
she will accept it cheerfully, having no imagination 
and no sense of humour. Carfrae will be able to 
neglect her as much as he chooses—she won’t know 
any better; and, meanwhile, she and old Kirby will 
jog pleasantly along and run his house to perfec¬ 
tion.” She raised her wrist, glanced at the little 
gemmed watch thereon, and moved restlessly. “Do 
you know, I fear I must be so inhospitable as to 
turn you out. All my things have to be packed, and 
as I have never in my life before packed my own 
things, I haven’t a notion how long it will take.” 

“You are going away?” he asked sharply. 

“But, of course. To town, to buy Val’s trousseau. 
They must be married in London, and then his chil¬ 
dren can be present at the ceremony.” 

“And you,” he mused, “will be left quite alone, 
since Miss Kirby goes to the Carons. Were you 
wise, do you think, to turn Caron down?” 

She arched her brows. “Has wisdom much to 
say in these matters, do you think? Either you can 
do a thing or you can’t. I couldn’t. And in London 
I shan’t be lonely. I know heaps of people.” 

“London?” he took her up keenly. “Then you 
don’t intend to live here?” 

“My dear man, how could I?” She laughed at 
the wild idea. “Do you see me feeding Val’s odious 
cocks and hens—or perhaps playing cricket on the 


8 o His Second Venture 

village green with her Girl Guides? No. I shall 
sell this house, which I have always hated, and start 
fresh.” 

There was a pause. It lasted just long enough to 
make her tremble lest she had burnt her boats in 
vain. Then: 

“Yes, you shall make a fresh start,” he said. 
“What do you think? Rooms at The Albany, shall 
we say? I like to winter out of England, and I 
also like to be here sometimes. What do you say 
to that? I have no ready-made children, and I can 
tell you, with my hand on my heart, that until I saw 
you I had no intention of marrying anybody. Come ! 
Is it a deal?” 

Her triumph was so prompt and so unqualified 
that she was genuinely overcome. “You—I—do I 
understand you to be asking me to marry you?” 

“You needn’t put such an offensive accent on the 
‘you.’ I know I’m an ugly beast, and I’m not always 
easy to get on with. But you suit me, and I swear 
I’ll be good to you—considerate—you shall have 
anything in reason that you want. Come! Put me 
out of my misery. Let me kiss you! I can assure 
you I’ve been wanting most desperately to do it.” 

He turned suddenly, drew her towards him and 
kissed her roughly, thirstily, on the cheeks and lips 
and throat. It was all that she could do to bear it 
without shrinking; and when it was over she read 
him a dainty homily upon how not to kiss a woman 
if you desire to retain her affection. Then he said 
his failure was due to lack of practice, and tried 


Rita Makes Her Arrangements 81 

various types until she could have screamed with 
repulsion. Ah, if the lips crushing her own had 
been Carfrae’s lips! . . . 

Poor wretch! She had sealed his doom, tied him 
to her incubus for life! 

But she did not repent. He could have had her 
for the asking, and he had not willed it so; and 
for herself in future there would always be ladies’ 
maids, boudoirs, fur coats, diamonds, Daimler cars, 
and all the other accessories without which she felt 
she could not exist. 


CHAPTER X 
aster’s views 

S OME days later Caron faced his brother-in-law 
across the untidy writing-table in the chaotic 
smoking-room at Archwood, and saw the blank 
amazement spread over the candid countenance of 
Lyndsay, who had been away from home and had 
only just received the shattering news. 

“But look here, Car, you can’t do this, you know 
—you simply mustn’t,” he objected earnestly. 
“Bosh about dishonourable and so on. Write to 
the girl and tell her that, just as much for her sake 
as your own, this thing can’t go on. You are no 
longer young—you have no longer the feelings of 
youth—any lie will do for a creature so 1 incon¬ 
ceivably dense as she must be. She’s a mere flapper. 
She may shed a few tears on the old governess’s 
bosom, but she will have recovered before you get 
as far as the Red Sea on your way back. It’s mad¬ 
ness to break up your whole life by sticking to a silly 
mistake.” 

Caron cleared his throat. “It’s gone too far. 
Her mother and she are up in town buying wedding 
clothes. Lance has been told, and is crazy with 
delight The whole thing was formally announced 
before I could draw breath. Oh, she’s got me fast 
82 


Aster’s Views 83 

—I mean the mother, not the girl. By heaven, if 
the girl was the same sort as the mother I’d not 
hesitate—I’d turn tail! But as it is, I—well, some¬ 
how I can’t. It would be like picking up Trash” 
—he lifted the little dog as he spoke—“and drawing 
a knife across his throat as he was in the act of 
licking your hand. Of course I meant to wriggle 
out. I intended to leave her behind, go out without 
her, write from India to say I had changed my mind. 
But the mother was too sharp for that.” . . . 

“Only one thing to be done,” said Lyn briskly. 
“Go to this girl and tell her the truth. If she’s 
a good sort she’ll take it standing up. I shall put 
it to her-” 

“No, you can’t. I won’t have it. You couldn’t 
wound a helpless thing like that so desperately. 
I had a letter from her this morning that made me 
want to cut my throat-” 

“Amorous?” 

“Worse than that. Just limpid—artless—show¬ 
ing the most utter confidence in me. I told her to 
go and buy herself a ring when she got to London. 
She tells me she has chosen chrysoprase, because my 
name begins with C. She had to have it specially 
made, and says her mother is vexed, but she hopes 
I will not be. Of course Rita wanted her to choose 
a costly gem, and the finest chrysoprase you can buy 
is comparatively inexpensive. I’m hanged if I know 
what I can do.” 

Lyn groaned. “Why did I go away? I’ve come 
into this affair too late.” 



84 His Second Venture 

Caron sprang from his chair and began to pace 
the room. 

There was a sound of a passionate step outside, 
the door handle turned with violence, and Aster 
bounced in without knocking, wearing a dirty smock, 
bareheaded and barefooted. 

“Well, Carfrae Caron,” said she insolently, “I 
told you I would consider your news calmly and 
give you my decision. It is this. I do not remain 
under your roof when your new wife arrives.” 

Caron turned from the window and stood, con¬ 
sidering his daughter. Usually she had upon him 
the effect of a gad-fly. Now, in the face of his 
dilemma, her tantrums seemed futile, and he re¬ 
mained calm. 

“All right,” he said absently, “go where you 
please, do as you like. I wash my hands of you.” 

This was so wholly unexpected that for quite a 
long time the child remained standing there, the 
wind taken out of her sails. “You mean that?” 
she asked at last. 

“If you mean seriously to carry out your threat 
—then / mean that you may go and do so.” 

Some uncertainty lurked behind her laugh of 
triumph. “How much do you intend to allow me?” 
she asked. 

“Allow you? Nothing. Why should I?” 

She grew scarlet with passion. “I am your 
daughter.” 

“Then render me a daughter’s obedience.” 

She laughed shrilly. “Obedience to parents! 


Aster’s Views 85 

Why, all that was scrapped ages before I was born.” 

“So it was. I was forgetting. The decalogue 
has gone overboard, and with it, of course, all 
parental duty towards the young. You are capable 
of looking after yourself, you have often told me 
so. Very well—go and do it.” 

“Oh, you tyrant! you take a mean advantage!” 
cried the child hysterically. “Did I ask to be bom? 
Did I wish to come into the world, handicapped by 
sex, at the mercy of a slave-driver like you?” 

“No more than I asked of the gods to be dis¬ 
graced by a child like you,” replied this new, stony 
father. Caron’s eyes were shining, hard and bril¬ 
liant. He looked both handsome and dangerous. 
As always, Aster quailed before his personality, but 
she still fought. 

“And you expect me to remain here, subject to 
these reactionaries—stupid old nurse, and a still 
more stupid old woman called Kirby, with ideas that 
came out of the Ark—you mean to marry a silly 
girl young enough to be my sister-” 

“Young enough to be your grand-daughter, I 
should think,” replied Caron; and suddenly he 
smiled. “Virgin Dawn,” he muttered under his 
breath. Then more loudly, looking full at Aster: 
“Yes, you poor neglected little soul, I am doing 
my best to put you within reach of better things 
than you have known. Now just run along to Mrs. 
Jennings and tell her what you would like to wear 
at my wedding.” 



86 His Second Venture 

She screamed and stamped. “I am not coming 
to your wedding!” 

“Good! I rather hoped so, but did not wish 
to hurt your feelings by asking you to stay away. 
I had told Mrs. Jennings to take you to town in 
the car this afternoon to choose your frock, and so 
on, but I am glad to be spared the expense. By 
the way—are you leaving the house at once, or will 
you wait to make your gesture until I bring home 
my wife? If you are leaving to-day I’ll say good¬ 
bye, for I’m very busy at the moment-” 

Somehow, she could not exactly tell how, Aster 
found herself outside the door. 

Caron closed it quickly after her, and turned to 
Eldrid with a swift, odd look. “Lyn,” said he, 
“I’ve got a plan—just thought of something.” 



CHAPTER XI 


THE BRIDE 

F OR Valery, the world as she knew it had wholly 
passed away, and all things, conspicuously her 
own underclothing, had become new. 

When her bridegroom and Lyndsay Eldrid came 
to dine at their hotel the night before the wedding, 
she was attired in pearl-coloured chiffon with a 
silver girdle. Her head was filleted with a sparkling 
bandeau, and her shoes of silver tissue were trying 
to look as if they were not size seven. 

Caron arrived alone, Lyndsay having gone to 
make certain arrangements for the morrow. He 
found Val beside a fire, which, though it was almost 
June, was very welcome. Poor Val! She did try 
hard to subdue emotion, but with all her efforts she 
sobbed audibly as she cast herself into the arms of 
her fiance , who, with set jaw and braced muscles, 
endured the inevitable. 

“Well, Val,” he said after several minutes, when 
he had succeeded in depositing her on a sofa, and 
releasing the hand to which she clung, “it seems 
ungracious to be talking business, but there are 
things I want to say, now that we are alone—getting 
married, you know, is not all roses and honey— 

there are other matters for consideration-” 

87 



88 


His Second Venture 

“Oh, yes, of course!” Sitting up she dried her 
eyes in eager obedience. “I didn’t mean to be so 
silly; but it was so wonderful. . . seeing you. Ever 
since you went away I’ve been wondering if it could 
really be true-” 

“Nice of you! Well, what I want to say is rather 
unpleasant, and for your private ear alone-” 

“Yes?” 

“I must tell you that, before I came up north, 
to stay at Grendon, I had sent in my name to the 
W.O. about a job that was going. I—I didn’t hear 
any more about it, and thought it was off; but from 
something that was said to me to-day I’m afraid 
I may have to take it. I mean, if it should be 
offered, I am not in a position to refuse it.” 

“Oh! Is it a good appointment? One that you 
will like?” 

“I thought I should like it well enough, at the 
time I applied for it. But I must feel differently 
now, because it is impossible that my—er—wife 
should accompany me.” 

“Oh!” Her voice shook, but she made no out¬ 
cry, as he had feared she might. “You mean—we 
might have to part—quite soon?” 

“Yes, that’s what I mean. There’s another man 
they might get. I hope that can be arranged; but 
I thought I ought to warn you.” 

Valery stared at the fire through a mist of tears. 
“Happiness doesn’t seem to last—very long—does 
it?” 

He winced a little. “We must make the most of 




The Bride 89 

it while we have it,” he said politely, “but I haven’t 
finished this business talk yet. You know, of course, 
that Mrs. Knight is contemplating a second mar¬ 
riage? Well, she may not have told you that, in the 
event of her doing this, Grendon Grange and the 
income that goes with it both revert to you. By 
your father’s will it is so arranged.” 

“Why—she said she meant to sell the 
Grange-” 

“She cannot sell it. It belongs to you. I point 
this out because, in the event of my having to go 
off and leave you, I want you to feel free to live 
either at Archwood or at the Grange, whichever 
you prefer.” 

She started. “How long—would you be away?” 
she panted. 

“About two years is the idea, I believe.” 

Two years! To her it was a lifetime. He saw 
that she could not speak. “I ought to have dwelt 
more fully upon the disadvantages of marrying a 
soldier,” he said with a sigh. 

She twisted her hands together. “I hope I should 
be brave,” she whispered. “I’ll try—indeed, I will. 
It won’t matter to me where I live, if you are not 
there. Oh, Carfrae! I pray they may not want 
you, and, yet, of course, everybody must want you.” 
She contemplated him with adoring eyes. He al¬ 
most groaned. 

“I’m a dull bridegroom for you!” 

“No wonder, with this hanging over you,” she 
answered tenderly, instantly forgetting her own 



90 His Second Venture 

feelings in sympathy with what she believed to be 
his. 

“Here,” he said, almost roughly, drawing a 
leather case from his pocket: “I brought you a 
wedding present. Lyn came and helped me to 
choose it, and he’s artistic-” 

She gave the cry of a happy child as she opened 
the case. “Oh, Carfrae!” He reproached himself 
because it irritated him to be called by his name with 
this school-girl mixture of bashfulness and gloating. 

The door was opened, and a servant ushered in 
Eldrid. 

“Hallo! I interrupt a lovers’ hour!” cried he. 
“ ’Scuse me, I’m off!” 

Caron recalled him peremptorily. “Come here, 
you ass, and be introduced. Val, this is Lyn, of 
whom you’ve often heard.” 

“I say!” cried Lyn, warmly shaking hands. 
“This tongue-tied old beggar hasn’t given me the 
vaguest idea what you were like! Now I see for 
myself.” His voice was an unspoken compliment, 
and it cheered her. “I do hope you and I will be 
friends,” he went on; “marriage so often cuts off 
a friendship between men. Don’t let yours-” 

“Oh, is it likely?” Her voice expressed the 
supreme improbability of her capacity to come be¬ 
tween two such Olympians as these. 

Caron drew some documents from his pocket and 
turned to his brother-in-law. “Make friends with 
Valery while I find Mrs. Knight. I have to get her 
signature to one or two papers.” 




The Bride 91 

Lyn sat down, preparing to study indulgently 
this formless creature, who, nevertheless, was a 
woman in the making. 

Val found him easy to talk to. He began by 
asking if she liked the necklace, and by fastening it 
round her neck, and making her admire herself in 
the chimney mirror. 

“It is lovely,” she told him with delight. “I had 
no idea that things—and people—were so pretty. 
Of course, at the Grange I hardly ever saw any¬ 
body, and I thought mother was exceptional in be¬ 
stowing so much thought upon appearance; but here, 
in London, everybody seems the same. The streets 
and shops are swarming with dainty, charming girls, 
and beautiful fabrics and colours ... it makes me 
wonder more and more what Carfrae could possibly 
see in me.” 

“Perhaps it was just the difference that attracted 
him,” hazarded Lyn, “though, if so, he must have 
had a bit of a shock this evening, for you are got up 
to the nines, are you not?” 

Val laughed consciously. “I’m not accustomed 
to my fine feathers yet,” said she, “but I hope I soon 
shall be. I dare say,” she added shyly, “that you 
will be a great help to me. You know what Carfrae 
likes, and,” she added with a shy laugh, “I think it’s 
very nice and rather wonderful of you to want to 
be friends with me.” 

“I assure you I feel most strongly that my sister s 
children need womanly love and care.” 

“It’s almost a pity that I am going to India so 


92 His Second Venture 

soon—before I make real friends with them,” said 
she regretfully. “But Kirdles will be very good to 
them, and by the time we come back they will have 
grown used to the idea of me, won’t they?” 

He flushed guiltily as he assented. As Car had 
said, there was something limpid about Val. She 
was so ingenuous that her simplicity had power in 
it. He hated the idea that he was conniving at the 
shock which awaited her upon the morrow. He felt 
that he could understand Carfrae’s refusal to un¬ 
deceive her. Her right feeling was so unconscious 
as to be rather awful, and though he talked and 
made friends, he was grateful when the entrance of 
Carfrae and Rita cut short a somewhat embarrasing 
interview. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE WEDDING 


ALERY KNIGHT opened her heavy eyes 



V upon her wedding morn with a sense of 
coming disaster, born of she knew not what. 

She had lain awake until the small hours, fighting 
against a formidable depression, confessing to her¬ 
self that she was terribly afraid of Caron, wonder¬ 
ing what lay in store for her when she should have 
spoken the words that made her his. 

She greatly longed for Kirdles, the only being on 
earth who really loved her. Her feeling towards 
her mother was of such a kind that she shut her eyes 
to it—would not face it—and Rita’s refusal to allow 
Kirdles to bring Lance to London overnight had 
been the final step in the estrangement. 

Miss Kirby and the boy were travelling by the 
night train—an arrangement not very good for 
Lance, but which saved Mrs. Knight the price of 
two rooms at the hotel. The other Caron children 
were coming to town in time for the ceremony, and 
after it Miss Kirby would shepherd them all back 
to Archwood. 

Rita’s own plans were made. She was starting 
for the Italian Lakes as soon as she had seen the 
married couple off. Jerrold would join her there. 


93 


94 His Second Venture 

In a couple of months they would be married quietly, 
without returning to England, and would pass the 
winter in Egypt, after visiting Athens and other 
places. 

With a cruel triumph she had noticed Carfrae’s 
glum misery, his terror of Val, his mute despair. 
She had conquered, and she gloated over the 
writhings of her victim. She did not reflect that a 
man, if pushed too far, may snatch at his revenge. 

When he was taking his leave she held up to him 
her lovely mouth with a mischievous smile. “Good 
night, my son-in-law that is to be! Won’t you give 
me a kiss? I’m told kissing of mothers-in-law is 
quite in fashion!” As Caron touched her cheek 
with rebellious lips she knew that he would have 
liked to bite her. 

Jerrold had dined with them, and the contrast 
between the two men had never seemed to her so 
marked. She did not waver, however. Her ticket 
was taken, her luggage packed, a first-rate maid 
once more engaged. To-morrow would rid her of 
all encumbrance, and she would start forth to enjoy 
the world, undisturbed by a single duty. 

The bride-to-be rose from her bed and dressed 
herself at a very early hour, and as soon as she was 
ready hurried down into the hotel lounge to await 
the arrival of Miss Kirby and Lance. Her heart 
was oppressed by that terrible possibility mentioned 
to her by her bridegroom overnight. Suppose it 
were really to happen? Suppose the Government 
should call upon him—in a week, perhaps, one short 


The Wedding 95 

little week? What would happen to his lonely, 
forsaken bride? 

He had told her to say nothing of it, and she was 
loyal to her heart’s core; but the dreadful possibility 
lay on her heart, and seemed to be turning all the 
warm love and faith and desire of service cold, as 
though a dreary wind blew chill upon it. 

The hotel Boots, busy with a broom, looked dis- 
couragingly at the young woman who paced up and 
down the hall, her hands in the pockets of her sports 
coat. She was in his way. Valery never even knew 
the man was there. 

A taxi stopped outside. She dashed forward. 
Lance, rosy and strong, leaped out laden with a 
mass of fishing tackle, golf clubs and tennis bats, 
and, clasping them all firmly, hurled himself through 
the swing doors. Then he saw Val, let fall the whole 
cargo, flew at her and hugged her. “Oh, Val, such 
a beastly shame! They wouldn’t let me bring 
Josh, and the poor old thing’s howling his heart out. 
I had such a lovely idea. I wanted him to have a 
white ribbon round his neck and hold your train in 
his teeth! But Kirdles wouldn’t hear of it.” 

Only as she felt the boy cling did poor Val realise 
what had been the extent of her own famine for his 
company. Kirdles had by now paid off the driver 
and entered the hotel. Her face was a study as she 
saw the bride, in her tweed suit, standing there in 
the lounge “like anybody else.” 

“Val! My dear child, what are you doing here? 


96 His Second Venture 

How came your mother to allow you downstairs? 
Why, you might meet Colonel Caron!” 

“Well, why not?” quavered poor Val, utterly 
unnerved by this reproof where she had looked only 
for tenderness. Miss Kirby, snatching her hand, 
urged her towards the staircase, babbling that for a 
bride to be running about in sight of everybody on 
her wedding morning was contrary to all tradition. 

“Simply isn’t done, old thing,” laughed Lance, 
helping to push the rebellious Val upstairs. On the 
landing they met Mrs. Knight, her eyes full of cold 
anger. 

“Really, Val, what you will do next I don’t know! 
Kirby, you have brought her up to be a perfect 
idiot!” 

“M-mother, I never knew!” 

“Never knew! There are things no normal girl 
should need telling,” snapped Rita, ushering her into 
her room as if it were a gaol. “Stay here for pity’s 
sake, and your breakfast will be brought. Go and 
have your bath now, and try to remember you are 
going to be married.” 

Three hours later, in white and silver tissue, with 
a sheaf of flowers in her shaking hand, Valery took 
her seat in a smart car, let out expressly for wed¬ 
dings, side by side with an elderly Knight uncle, 
whom she had not seen for years. Her Aunt Esther, 
the Principal of St. Frideswide’s, was not able to 
be present, as term had not long begun. Uncle 
Charles deemed it his duty to prattle facetiously as 


The Wedding 97 

they traversed the short distance to the church. 

She heard nothing, and when she alighted at the 
foot of the long flight of dirty steps that led to the 
door, she saw nothing clearly. 

Slowly they proceeded up the nave, to the strains 
of Lohengrin’s emotional love-music to where Car- 
frae Caron stood stiff as a ramrod, so pale that he 
looked yellow under his deep tan. 

Lyndsay Eldrid was behind him, and on Val’s 
left, at the end of the pew, close enough to touch 

her, was a tall, slim girl of eleven, with a face so 

keen, as well as beautiful, that even in her condition 
of a nervousness that bordered on idiocy, the bride 
noticed her. There was a menacing look in the 
blazing eyes, as though their owner were keyed up 
to some fell purpose, and when the priest read the 
solemn invitation to anyone who had objections to 
make to come forward and state them, there was 
a stir, a murmur, as Aster stepped out of her seat 
with the evident intention of going up to the speaker 
and making a communication. Before she could 
move a step, Miss Kirby, from the pew behind, 
grasped her by the shoulder. Swift and furious 
the would-be mischief-maker turned, and met the 
perfectly fearless and steady gaze of a pair of 
shrewd grey eyes in an elderly face. Something in 
their expression checked Aster long enough for 
Kirdles to bend forward and whisper very softly in 
her ear: 

“Don’t startle her. She’s so frightened, and you 
might set her off crying.” 


98 His Second Venture 

Something subtle in the tone and manner sug¬ 
gested that Kirdles and Aster were forming them¬ 
selves into a mature committee of two, in order to 
watch over and protect something helpless. The 
appeal touched the vain child in a tender spot. She 
liked to be thus treated. Half unconsciously her 
lips parted in a smile, and nodding silently, she 
went back to her place. Thereafter the ceremony 
passed off without hitch. 

Hardly had the two chief actors disappeared into 
the vestry before Lance leaned across from his place 
on the other side of Miss Kirby and whispered 
tauntingly to his sister: “First round to Kirdles, 
my lady.” 

Aster’s splendid eyes flashed over Miss Kirby’s 
wedding attire. “Mean to say you’re Miss Kirby?” 

“I am; and from your likeness to your father I 
guess that you are Aster.” 

“If I’d known I wouldn’t have held my tongue 
for you!” 

“Then it’s fortunate you didn’t know,” was the 
good-tempered and quite tranquil reply. Aster 
glared at her. 

“It’ll never answer,” she vouchsafed, after 
scrutiny. “I’m full of complexes, but the biggest 
of them all is an inherent horror of anything in the 
nature of a governess. That is because my mother 
had a governess who frightened her. It’s an ante¬ 
natal complex, you know.” 

“Very distressing. Where do you feel it most?” 
asked Miss Kirby, with so deep an appearance of 


The Wedding 99 

interest that the child, on the look-out for irony, 
could detect none. 

“I don’t expect you read Freud, do you?” she 
asked disdainfully. 

Kirdles, having talked over her future pupil with 
the colonel, had been studying her own role with 
zeal during the past fortnight. She shrugged her 
shoulders slightly. “Bit out of date, isn’t it?” she 
asked lightly. “Have you studied him much?” 

“Oh, yes. I read anything I like.” 

“And do you understand it all?” 

Lance uttered a smothered gurgle of delight. 
“Understand? Why, she’s barmy on the crumpet! 
She hasn’t the vaguest idea what she’s talking about 
half her time.” 

Miss Kirby leaned forward confidentially. “I 
don’t believe all Lance says. You look to me a very 
intelligent girl. We must have some good talks.” 

Aster was flattered, though she tried hard not to 
appear so. She would have liked to shine, and to 
continue the conversation; but at that moment the 
hesitating murmurs of the organist were exchanged 
for the trumpets of the “Wedding March,” and her 
father, coming from the vestry with Valery on his 
arm, walked straight up to where his children were 
sitting. 

“Aster—Humphrey—this is Valery,” said he 
concisely. 

Val’s mouth was quivering, her eyes swam in 
tears, her nose, it must be confessed, was distinctly 
pink. There was something piteous about her, and 


ioo His Second Venture 

suddenly Aster knew, with the terrible acumen of 
childhood, that here was no rival to alienate her 
father’s affections, but someone you could be sorry 
for, someone, whom, perhaps, you might even 
patronise. Impulsively she stepped forth from her 
pew, held up her arms and kissed her stepmother 
quite heartily. “Lance says you’re a good pal. I 
hope you’ll like me, too.” 

“Oh, Aster, you darling!” cried Val, struggling 
with a great sob and joyfully bestowing moist kisses. 
Caron looked curiously gratified. Laying his hand 
on his daughter’s shoulder he smiled into her eyes. 
For the first time in months the child knew the 
sweetness of approval—the relief of being no longer 
in opposition to the Government. Grasping Lance’s 
hand, she marched down the church behind the 
married pair, Miss Kirby following with little 
Humphrey. 

“Oh, Carfrae, let them come in the carriage with 
us,” pleaded Val, and he, jumping at this wonderful 
chance to escape from a tete-a-tete , raised no 
objection. 

They all packed in together, little Humphrey, in 
his blue silk suit, seated upon his father’s knee, and 
drove, in a state of high amity, back to the hotel. 

“Are we to call you Valery?” asked Aster eagerly, 
and Val replied: 

“Of course.” 

“I never meant to call you anything but Mrs. 
Caron. However, you don’t look a bit like Mrs. 
Caron.” 


The Wedding ioi 

“I don’t feel like it,” laughed the bride tremu¬ 
lously. “Somehow I feel less like it than I ex¬ 
pected.” 

“Well, I think you do look like it with all those 
brats clinging to you,” said her husband, speaking 
more gaily than she had ever heard him speak. 

“It really was rather clever of my father to find 
you,” observed Aster. 

“Bless you, it was I who found her,” vaunted 
Lance, evoking thereby the first note of discord— 
a mutter from Aster of: “Oh, how you do swank!” 

They reached the hotel door. Red carpet awaited 
them, and quite a little crowd in the street. A 
murmur of astonishment as the three children were 
handed out by their father before the bride could 
emerge, brought a flush to the colonel’s face. He 
gave his arm rather hurriedly to his wife, and they 
disappeared within the hotel. The hall porter at 
once came forward bearing a telegram upon a 
salver. 

“Congratulations, I suppose,” said Val, whose 
spirits had risen. 

“The message arrived ten minutes ago, sir, and 
the messenger says he was strictly ordered to wait 
for your reply,” said the man as he presented it. 
“He says it’s urgent.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


DISILLUSIONED 

C ARON took the message from the salver with 
a swift, guilty glance at Valery. Her hand 
slipped from his arm and she stood gazing at him, 
very pale. Mrs. Knight had arrived back from the 
church immediately after them, and was furious at 
their having defied convention by bringing the chil¬ 
dren with them. She stood arrested, the words she 
had meant to speak dying on her lips, while her son- 
in-law tore open the envelope and glanced at the 
enclosure. He raised his eyes. 

“Let the messenger wait,” he said to the porter. 
“The answer will be ready in a few minutes. And 
now”—he glanced impatiently round—“where is 
our private room—the room in which we are to 
lunch?” 

The head waiter sprang forward. “This way, 
• _ »» 
sir. 

Caron took Valery by the hand. “Come away 
from all these people.” In his voice was a savage 
irritation, born partly of shame. “Fancy being 
married in a hotel—all this publicity—perfectly 
intolerable.” 

He drew her rapidly forward, along the dark 
corridor, while she strove and strove for control of 
her voice which might suffice to ask him whether he 
102 


Disillusioned 103 

had received the dreaded orders. She could not 
speak, desperately though she tried. It was need¬ 
less, however. Deep in her heart she knew—she 
knew. 

He was murmuring something under his breath— 
of his own regret—of its being rough on her—but 
Rita had followed them up so closely that as they 
entered the room where the bridal feast lay spread 
she was at their heels; and she proceeded to address 
Caron in a voice unlike anything that even her 
daughter had previously heard. 

“Carfrae, what is the meaning of this? What 
was in that message?” 

The tone of bullying, of insolent familiarity, 
which was so startling to the bride, gave Caron back 
all his composure. Glancing at Rita in a preoccu¬ 
pied way, he turned from her without a word and 
drew Valery with him to a side table near the win¬ 
dow, which held writing materials. Hastily seating 
himself, he wrote a few words on a telegraph form 
and looked up, his gaze travelling round till it found 
Lyndsay, who, with the other guests, had entered 
the room. Lyndsay, answering the silent summons, 
came forward, took the paper and left the room. 

Rita had pursued the pair to the window, but had 
failed to see what was written. She stood biting her 
lip, glaring upon her son-in-law in a fever of appre¬ 
hension. He faced her imperturbably. “Valery is 
not unprepared for what has happened,” he said 
quietly. “I warned her that it might so fall out. 
I think I am right in saying that I warned you also. 


104 His Second Venture 

Before my visit to Grendon I had, as you were 
aware, put in for command of the Chugga Expe¬ 
dition, and I have just been summoned to take up 
the post.’ , 

“Preposterous! Your marriage should, of course, 
have put such an idea out of the question, and I 
assumed that it had done so. Are you, then, not 
returning to India at all?” 

“Naturally not. I have to report at the W.O. 
to-day.” 

“To-day!” She lost all caution. Though she 
knew the innocent bride was listening, she could not 
keep back the words that leapt to her lips: 

“You brute! You arranged this on purpose!” 

Valery heard them with an indescribable shock. 
She heard, too, her husband’s instant and icy re¬ 
joinder. “Oh, pardon me, the arrangements for 
this precipitate marriage have been entirely yours, 
not mine.” 

None of the guests was near enough to overhear 
the low, rapid colloquy. Rita turned a sickly yellow 
colour, but she tried to twist her features into a 
smile. 

“Don’t forget that others besides yourself have 
urgent plans. I leave by to-night’s boat for Calais. 
I cannot possibly take charge of your wife.” 

“Let me assure you that nothing is farther from 
my thoughts than such a suggestion. My wife has 
two houses, and can live in either. You will, per¬ 
haps, before we sit down to table, allow us a few 
moments’ privacy in which to discuss her plans.” 

“Oh, you have those all cut and dried, I’ll war- 


Disillusioned 105 

rant/’ hissed Rita, tears of rage swimming in her 
beautiful eyes. 

Intent only upon hurrying Valery out of reach of 
her further words, Caron seized the girl’s arm 
almost roughly and literally propelled her out of the 
room, along a passage into a small empty lounge. 

He little knew that the passive being whose elbow 
he was gripping so ungently was another and a 
wholly different woman from her with whom he 
had so lately stood before the altar. 

Valery was emphatically no fool. She had heard 
quite enough. 

She knew now. 

Her mother, in order to be rid of her, had foisted 
her into the arms of an unwilling bridegroom; and 
the man, while yielding perforce to the scheming, 
had taken steps immediately to disembarrass him¬ 
self of the unwelcome burden of the bride thus flung 
at his head. 

Unwanted, unloved, forsaken on her wedding 
day. 

For a minute after she found herself alone with 
him it seemed to her that the accumulation of what 
she was feeling—the keying up of her emotions and 
the sharp reaction—must prove more than she could 
bear, and that her brain would burst. 

Just as she was swooning off into merciful ob¬ 
livion, pride, like the merciless smart of a wound, 
came to her aid and pricked her back to con¬ 
sciousness. 

Her childish dream of love had snapped like a 


106 His Second Venture 

withered daisy-chain, and she was left face to face 
with the agony of realisation. 

“Valery,” he began unsteadily, seating her upon 
a couch and taking his place beside her, “this is 
most unfortunate.” 

It was on her tongue to cry “Don’t lie! Don’t 
trouble to throw more dust into my newly-opened 
eyes!” But to what purpose? The man cared 
nothing for her. A wrangle or reproaches would 
accomplish nothing but to turn his present indiffer¬ 
ence into positive dislike. In a mirror which faced 
them she saw their two figures—his upright, grace¬ 
ful carriage, finely-cut head, hard, clear glance; her 
own mushy, formless shape, her pink nose, her 
crooked wreath. It was all she could do to refrain 
from tearing the bridal mockery from her head, 
stamping upon it, shrieking. 

She did none of these things. In a voice which 
hardly shook she courteously said: “Don’t think of 
me. You warned me. I was not unprepared. And 
I suppose you have not much time. We should be 
thinking of you.” 

He looked at his watch. “At least I have time 
to lunch with my wife and to drink her health,” said 
he. She could hear the relief in his voice, and a new 
ring of kindliness. He had dreaded tears and em¬ 
braces. “I am sure you understand,” he went on, 
“that a soldier under orders has no option. There is 
not time for sentiment. I have to be at the War 
Office at four o’clock, and the urgent thing which 
you and I must settle is what you had better do.” 

Valery stared down upon her red hand and its 


Disillusioned 107 

wedding ring as she replied: “Have you not made 
arrangements ?” 

He glanced sharply at her. Did the words hold 
an accusation? Had she grasped the meaning of 
Rita’s burst of venom? Looking at her expression¬ 
less face, he could not believe it. “There are two 
courses open to you—to go to Archwood or to 
Grendon,” he began stammeringly. 

She replied: “I will go to Archwood. Your 
children are now part of my duty, and Miss Kirby 
will be there-” 

He broke in: “Miss Kirby and the children can 
be where you choose. Don’t let that weigh with 
you. If you prefer the Grange-” 

She strung up herself to utter difficult words. 

“I do not wish to go back to the Grange—yet. 
It would be painful to me to return there. I left 
it with such different hopes.” . . . 

Her pluck touched him as he had not looked to be 
touched. With more feeling than he had yet shown 
he replied quickly, “I see. I see.” 

“Later, perhaps,” she continued, “we might all 
go there . . . for the summer holidays. But for 
the present I will go to—your house.” 

He answered gratefully. “It is what I should 
myself prefer. The children are there, and it is 
Lyndsay’s home. By the way, shall you have any 
objection to his being there? He is away a good 
deal; comes and goes. But if you would rather he 
cleared out altogether, I will give him the tip.” 

“Oh, certainly not. I know Miss Kirby will make 
him comfortable.” 




108 His Second Venture 

“I don’t doubt it. My main anxiety is that you 
should be comfortable. Miss Kirby has expressed 
herself as certain that she can run the house on the 
sum I am prepared to allow; but if you are of 
the party, I must increase it. You will want a maid, 
won’t you?” 

Val opened her mouth to say “No,” but her new 
and amazing personality coming into play, thought 
better of it. She considered that in all probability 
it would be better for her to have a maid, and she 
replied tranquilly: “Just as you think.” 

“As I have already explained, on your mother’s 
remarriage you will become possessed of the Grange 
in your own right, and an income of between three 
and four hundred a year, out of which I think you 
should pay the upkeep of the place, unless you pre¬ 
fer to let it. As for me, in the African desert I 
shall have no chance to spend anything, so you can 
have all you want in reason.” He proceeded to 
show her, upon a bit of paper, a memorandum of 
his means and of what she might draw upon. She 
listened and acquiesced or seemed to do so in a 
passive silence. 

“Well,” he said at last, having made her take the 
piece of paper and put it away, “I want you to 
promise to write regularly. I shall get your letters 
very irregularly, I fear, but I should like to be able 
to look forward to a budget of news whenever com¬ 
munications get through. I have as great faith in 
Miss Kirby’s good sense as in her integrity, and I 
feel that I can trust both her and you. I-” 



Disillusioned 


109 

He broke off suddenly, leaning forward and staring 
at the ground in obvious embarrassment. 

“I ought to ask you to forgive me, Val,” he went 
on at last. “I did not put things fairly to you when 
we—er—settled to get married in such a hurry. 
Perhaps it was that I thought of you as very young 
and inexperienced; but I am now feeling that I 
have made a pretty holy mess of things generally. 
It’s—well, it’s quite on the cards, that I never get 
back from this little show. Uncharted country, you 
know; poisonous climate, equally poisonous natives. 
If—if we don’t see each other again, I hope you 
won’t be—er—very much cut up. Lyndsay has my 
will, and I must go and sign it.” He took her hand. 

Until that hour it had ever been ready to cling to 
his, tremulous with the timid joy of his caresses. 
Now he felt that it was unresponsive, dead, that, 
had she dared, it would have been withdrawn. 
“Val, you don’t bear malice?” he asked anxiously. 

She answered surprisingly: “No. For the sake 
of that morning when we knew that Lance would 
live, I do not bear malice.” 

“Val,” he cried, almost pleadingly, “the boy loves 
you. Even that little demon Aster has taken to you. 
Be as good to them as you can, won’t you? I can’t 
express to you how gratified I was when Aster kissed 
you of her own accord.” 

“Yes, that was lucky, wasn’t it?” said Valery 
gravely. “I mean it made things easier for you.” 
Once again he vaguely sensed irony, but her stolid 


no His Second Venture 

demeanour seemed to make the idea preposterous. 
“I shall try to do my duty,” added his wife simply. 

“I am no end grateful to you, Val. You are a 
plucky child. And now I must get busy, signing my 
will. I’ll find Lyndsay.” He rose to his feet. “We 
may not have another quiet minute, so let me kiss 
my wife.” 

She had risen when he did, but as he extended his 
arm to put it round her, somehow she eluded him 
and was not there. She had turned aside to lift 
from the sofa her sheaf of fading lilies. When she 
looked back at him she was so white that he thought 
her about to faint. 

“I will ask you to spare me,” said she, a dignity 
in her voice and manner which amazed him. “I 
have had much to bear—I have been through a 
great deal. If you wish me to sit down to table and 
—and—not break down—please let us bid each 
other good-bye quietly.” 

For a moment he hung on the brink of words. 
Something in the dumbness of her agony affected 
him horribly. He sought wildly for some consoling 
lie which might tend to soothe the torture which he 
divined, though dimly. But what could he say? 
There was nothing to be said. She offered him her 
nerveless hand. He stooped and kissed her brow, 
keenly conscious that she made no response, that she 
merely suffered his touch, and that unwillingly and 
in order to avoid argument. As he followed her 
back into the luncheon room the haughty colonel 
had an annoying suspicion of having been snubbed. 


CHAPTER XIV 


MISS KIRBY IN CHARGE 

I T was the middle of October before Lyndsay 
Eldrid returned to Archwood from a sketching 
tour which he had prolonged from week to week 
out of sheer dread of coming home and facing 
things. 

It is fair to him to say that he was anything but 
proud of the part which he had played in helping 
Carfrae to plan out his scheme of release. 

While they were arranging it both men had felt 
themselves to be pitting their wits against those of 
Rita Knight, now Lady Jerrold. The bride had 
been viewed by each of them as a mere pawn, a 
child whose wishes hardly counted. 

Upon his first introduction to Valery, Lyndsay 
had been uncomfortably aware that he was not 
“playing the game.” Her wonderful innocence, her 
boundless trust in her bridegroom, had caused him 
twinges of discomfort; and later the way in which 
she had stood up to the blow, her reticence, her dig¬ 
nity, had forced upon him the conviction that she 
had been cruelly let down. He had felt it impos¬ 
sible to face this poor blundering idiot of a girl 
whom he had helped to befool. 

hi 


112 His Second Venture 

He lingered abroad, accordingly, moving all the 
summer from valley to valley in the Pyrenees. Only 
once had he heard from the strange new family now 
living at Archwood. It was Miss Kirby who then 
wrote, in reply to a request from him, that certain 
things he needed might be sent out to him, which 
was promptly done. The letter which accompanied 
the parcel was friendly, but brief and business-like. 
Beyond saying that all at Archwood were well, it 
told him nothing. He sent postcards from time to 
time bearing his change of address; and all his 
correspondence had been punctually forwarded. 
After three months his curiosity got the better of 
his scruples. He balanced long between dislike of 
facing Valery and keen desire to know what Miss 
Kirby was making of her job. 

As he entered the drive gates he wondered 
whether Lance and Aster pursued their former un¬ 
ruly courses—ranging over the countryside, leaving 
gates open, treading down hay and crops and other¬ 
wise studying their duty to their neighbour; or play¬ 
ing a game which seemed never to lose its charm 
to them—that of lurking in an angle of the old 
boundary wall and slowly emerging to cross the 
high road just as a car was coming past, so that the 
driver had to clap on brakes with tyre-destroying 
force to avoid running over them. 

What means, if any, had the elderly Miss Kirby 
found for restraining them? And Aster’s pursuits 
had sometimes been of a still more objectionable 
kind. He remembered a gardener’s boy called 


Miss Kirby in Charge 113 

Marsh. Ought he to have given the simple old 
governess a hint? 

The front garden seemed to him, as he entered, 
to be in apple-pie order. He had never seen the 
autumn flowers so gay. The whole house, too, had 
the appearance of being polished till it shone— 
windows, curtains, knocker and so on, neat as a 
new pin. 

He had written to announce his return, but with¬ 
out naming a train, so he had not been met. He 
entered a hall—the same, yet not the same. There 
was something about it which was cosy and com¬ 
forting. It was sweet-scented, flower-filled. 

Nobody was about, and after wandering into the 
drawing-room, where there was a good fire, he 
passed through the open window into the garden. 

Willis, the head gardener, was pruning roses not 
far off, and greeted him with a smile. “Well, Willis, 
so the new management hasn’t fired you?” 

Willis’s intelligent face relaxed. “No, sir. Miss 
Kirby and I work very well together. Glad to see 
you back.” 

“And how,” pursued Lyn, unable to restrain his 
curiosity, “do things go indoors? Been a revolu¬ 
tion, eh?” 

“Well,” replied the man, his eyes twinkling, “if 
there has, it’s been what the Socialist papers call a 
bloodless one. Miss Kirby, she changed all the staff 
indoors, and a good thing, too. They were a poor 
lot. She has two maids less than there used to be, 
yet I’m told everything is better done. I hear the 


114 His Second Venture 

head housemaid is to valet you, and I’ll be bound 
you’ll be better served than you were with that 
lazy beggar Alfred.” 

“And Mrs. Caron?” 

“She was well when she left home, sir.” 

“Left home? I didn’t know she was away.” 

“Gone to Oxford to read for her degree,” replied 
Willis. “Seems to me a mighty sensible thing to 
do. She fretted here, as was but natural, but it 
was pitiful to see how she fell away. So she went 
oh last week to St. Frideswide’s. I understand that 
one of her aunts, a Miss Knight, is the Lady Prin¬ 
cipal of the College.” 

Lyndsay contrived to dissemble most of his sur¬ 
prise, which was enormous. His conscience gave 
him a vicious tweak, and after a slight hesitation he 
changed the subject. “And Miss Aster?” 

Willis gave him an odd look. “I think you’ll 
find Miss Aster gardening, the other side of the 
golden privet hedge,” he replied, collecting his tools 
and preparing to move off. “You’ll excuse me, sir. 
At the moment I’m without a garden boy, and it 
makes me somewhat busy.” 

“Oho! Marsh turn out badly, eh?” 

“Well, not altogether; but it was time he went,” 
replied Willis tranquilly as he took his departure. 

Lyndsay was sensible of curiously mixed feelings 
—relief that he need not face Valery, and a queer 
regret that she should be absent. He had wanted 
to feel sure that her immature heart was intact, 
and that she had not suffered as a result of her 


Miss Kirby in Charge 115 

desertion; but what Willis had said sounded rather 
pitiful. 

Slowly he descended the steps which led to the 
lower terrace, rounded the golden privet hedge, and 
discovered his niece in a gardening overall, busily 
engaged in raking together the weeds just extracted 
from one of the beds of the rose garden, a pursuit 
so unlike all that he remembered of the young lady 
that he remained where he was, staring in amaze. 

“Hallo! Here’s industry!” he remarked at last. 
Aster stared, looked round, turned fiery red and 
laughed awkwardly. 

“Hallo, Lyn! You home! Glad to see you,” she 
vouchsafed; but she did not cease from her em¬ 
ployment. 

Lyn felt puzzled. “What’s up, old lady?” he 
asked in a different tone. “Anything wrong?” 

Aster rose from her knees, caught her pile of 
weeds between two boards, and flung them into the 
barrow standing near. “I’ve got some weeding to 
do,” said she shortly. 

“You mean that you’ve been set to do it?” 

“You don’t suppose that I’m doing it for my 
own enjoyment, do you?” 

“Why are you doing it, then?” he asked sharply. 

“Miss Kirby’s orders.” 

Lyndsay felt angry. Surely this was coming it a 
bit strong. It could not be part of Aster’s education 
to do the weeding. He speculated wildly upon the 
system of intimidation which it must have required 
to induce her to accept such a position. 


n6 His Second Venture 

“You’re kidding me, aren’t you?” he finally in¬ 
quired. 

“You’d better go and ask Kirdles.” 

“Surely you’ve done enough now. This bed looks 
topping.” 

“I’ve got to do the next one before tea,” she 
replied, turning back to her work with a dogged 
expression. 

Lyn, mystified and displeased, made his way back 
to the drawing-room, which Miss Kirby entered 
from the hall at the same moment. She had just re¬ 
turned from a motor drive, accompanied by nurse 
and Humphrey. The little boy, catching sight of his 
uncle, ran with joy to greet him. He looked splen¬ 
didly well and healthy. Nurse also was beaming. 

“Where’s Lance?” asked Eldrid. 

“Oh, he’s been at Laytondene a month now,” 
replied Miss Kirby, naming one of the leading pre¬ 
paratory schools, “and he is getting on famously; 
writes in the best of spirits. Do sit down and be 
comfortable. I hope you haven’t waited for your 
tea. I sent the car to meet two trains, and after 
all I fear you had to walk.” 

Her manner was frank and cordial. He felt him¬ 
self welcomed. 

“Yes,” she went on, as she poured out tea and 
supplied him with delicious scones, “we were so 
afraid he might not be happy at school, having 
been brought up so differently from the usual boy. 
However, I sent him to our curate, who is very 
good with boys, for two hours’ coaching each day, 


Miss Kirby in Charge 117 

and also for cricket practice. He picked up the 
game wonderfully quickly; in fact, he one day re¬ 
marked that it was what he had always wanted, 
without knowing what he wanted; and this morning 
he writes that he has been put into the second 
eleven! Great glory!” 

Lyndsay was really pleased at this news, and soon 
found himself talking to Kirdles like an old friend. 
He was still conscious of the sense of well-being 
which had extended itself to him at the very gates. 
The drawing-room looked fresh and yet it was man¬ 
ifestly in constant use. Order evidently reigned, 
both indoors and out. 

“I’ve been hearing what rather astonished me,” 
said he presently: “that Valery has gone to Oxford. 
Not at all a bad idea. How is she? Well, I hope?” 

There was a slight hesitation before the quiet 
answer came. “Thanks. I am somewhat less 
anxious about her than I was.” 

“Has she been ill, then?” 

“About the middle of July I did not think she 
would live.” 

He cried out in horror. “Heavens! What 
was the matter?” 

Miss Kirby raised her eyes and looked at him 
steadily. “Do you really need to ask?” 

“You mean,” he stammered, “I understand you 
to mean that she felt the parting from her husband 
so deeply?” 

Miss Kirby hesitated again. There was a set of 
her lips which made Lyndsay feel small. “She is 


n8 His Second Venture 

young,” said she then, “and exceptionally inexperi¬ 
enced. She had successively three terrible blows, 
one after the other, within three months. Her 
previous quiet, sheltered life had not prepared her 
for such things.” 

Lyndsay somewhat incoherently expressed sym¬ 
pathy and distress. He wished to know what form 
the malady had taken. 

“About six weeks after her wedding day I went 
up to her sitting-room one afternoon to ask her a 
question, and found her lying unconscious upon the 
floor. She was most unwilling that I should send 
for a doctor, but I dared not let her have her way 
in that. He told me afterwards that he was only 
just in time.” 

“Just in time! But what was wrong?” 

“Her heart was broken,” said Kirdles quietly, 
“and she was just lying down under it.” 

Lyndsay found himself staring into the fire 
through a mist. 

“I found out then that she had hardly ever had 
an hour’s sleep since her wedding day. Of course, 
I blame myself for not having sooner discovered 
this; but I had some excuse, for I was so Dusy the 
first month of our time here, getting things into 
some kind of order that I had no leisure to think of 
her, and she was so quiet. She never uttered a 
complaint nor said she was ill. She took a fancy 
to occupy the old nurseries on the top floor. She 
turned one into her sitting-room—you know your 
sister never used them, she had two first-floor rooms 


Miss Kirby in Charge 119 

for nurseries—and Val used to be up there, and I 
thought she was busy about her own little arrange¬ 
ments of furniture and so on. But she was just like 
a flower taken out of water and left to die upon the 
floor!” 

“Horrible!” muttered Lyndsay, twisting his 
hands as he stared at the leaping flame. 

“I was in despair until I bethought me of this 
Oxford idea. She has quite good abilities, you 
know, though her personal tastes are more for an 
active and outdoor life than for study. But she 
has had a sound education, though I say it, and 
caught at the idea of fitting herself for earning 
money. She only needed a few weeks’ coaching, 
her aunt recommended a good tutor; and the stim¬ 
ulus gave her an objective; so, I am glad to say 
she has taken hold on life again. But so altered! 
I don’t think you would know her if you met her in 
the street!” 

“How do you mean, altered?” 

“Well, you know she was stout, as some young 
girls are in their teens. It usually takes a couple 
of years to fine them down; but she fell to mere 
skin and bone in six weeks.” 

“Good Lord!” 

Miss Kirby turned to a small drawer in the work¬ 
table at her side, extracted an unmounted photo 
and passed it to him. The girl there represented 
seemed all eyes. She was seated in a garden chair, 
her pose listless, her thin, wistful face expressing 
hopelessness. Lyndsay could not believe that it was 


120 His Second Venture 

the stout, beaming young woman whom he remem- 
bered. 

After a prolonged scrutiny he flashed up a fur¬ 
tive glance. “This really is Valery? You are not 
pulling my leg?” 

She shook her head. 

“Has—has the colonel seen this photo?” 

Kirdles took it from him quite abruptly. “Cer¬ 
tainly not,” she replied, as she replaced it in the 
drawer; and her tone seemed to forbid any kind of 
rejoinder. 

Lyndsay knew that he crimsoned guiltily. The 
unspoken condemnation is always hard to support; 
but qui s y excuse, s’accuse, and he could not speak. 
To carry off his confusion he began to talk at 
random. 

“I hear that the Chugga Expedition is actually 
in motion at last. How thankful Carfrae must be!” 

“Thankful? Why?” 

“Oh, the delay must have been most irritating. 
All this time kicking his heels in the hinterland.” 

He did not at all like Miss Kirby’s smile. “Really 
you need not trouble to keep up that deception, 
Mr. Eldrid. Is it possible you did not know that 
the papers stated fully, about the middle of July, 
that it was never the intention of the Government 
that the Expedition should start before October, 
and that although Colonel Caron had been in Africa 
since June he was there on leave, to shoot big 
game?” 


Miss Kirby in Charge 121 

Lyndsay bit his lip. He moved uneasily in his 
chair. 

“I really- Is that so?” he began, and then 

the insincerity of it stuck in his throat. “Does 
Valery know this?” he asked after a wretched 
pause. 

“When I found her unconscious upon the floor 
of her room she had The Times f which contained 
the information, clutched in her hand,” was the 
grave reply. “The knowledge doubtless came as 
the final shock.” 

Lyndsay was conscious of colouring guiltily. He 
had seldom felt more completely unhappy. He 
dared not look up, but perused the pattern of the 
hearthrug carefully. 

“You mean,” he said at last, “that Valery thinks 
—that she supposes-” 

“I mean that she knows her husband deceived 
her concerning the necessity for his instant depar¬ 
ture. I will leave you to imagine for yourself what 
the effect upon a nature as upright and as simple as 
hers was likely to be.” 

The pause which ensued was dreadful to the 
young man. Miss Kirby presently broke it with a 
quiet and natural-sounding question concerning his 
time in the Pyrenees. “I was there many years ago, 
when Valery’s grandparents, the Knights, wintered 
in Pau,” said she, “but I never went beyond Cau- 
terets. I would have loved to see Gavarnie and the 
Cirque, but that was before the days of char-a- 
bancs !” 




122 His Second Venture 

Lyndsay, only just fresh from that marvellous 
spot, could not resist the temptation to talk about it, 
and she listened as though genuinely interested. 
Presently he found himself thanking her quite 
humbly for her welcome. “I don’t expect I ought to 
go on living here—it only adds to your cares. I 
settled here because it was company for my sister, 
and also because my contribution helped her to make 
ends meet-” 

“Had she, then, a difficulty in making ends 
meet?” 

He laughed. “Most housekeepers have; don’t 
you think so?” 

“I can’t say I find any, with the more than 
adequate allowance the colonel makes me.” 

Lyndsay shrugged his shoulders. “Blanche was 
not much of a manager. You seem to be Ai in 
that line.” 

“Wait till you have been here a week,” she re¬ 
torted good-humouredly. “Then, if you still say 
you would like to go, I shall know what to think.” 

She was so natural and so unaffectedly cordial 
that he presently determined to bring out the ques¬ 
tion which had been craving utterance ever since he 
came in. “What’s this latest stunt of Aster’s— 
weeding the flower-beds?” he asked, as carelessly 
as he could. 

Miss Kirby gave him a shrewd, humorous glance. 
“You have seen her, then? Did she not tell you?” 

“She was very reticent. I could not make it out.” 

“Perhaps I had better follow her example.” 



Miss Kirby in Charge 123 

His colour rose. “I have no wish,” he said, 
rather haughtily, “to be either impertinent or intru¬ 
sive, and I realise that the kids are in your charge; 
but, after all, they are my sister’s children, and I’m 
fond of ’em.” 

Miss Kirby looked at him with benevolence. “I 
should like very much to tell you what I think so 
greatly to Aster’s credit. If I do not, it is because 
it is her affair, and I have no right to break her 
confidence. She is beginning to trust me, and I 
want to keep that trust. She may tell you anything 
she pleases, or, if she prefers, I will tell you myself. 
But I hope you sympathise with me when I say 
that it must be left for her to decide.” 

Lyndsay’s eyes kindled. “You are a good sort! 
Will you explain it all, if she says you may?” 

“Willingly.” 

He was off, running like a schoolboy, and soon 
returned, having met his niece on her way indoors 
to schoolroom tea. 

“She says you are to tell me anything you think 
fit; and she was tremendously bucked at your leaving 
it to her.” 

Kirdles smiled at him across the tea-table. 

“Aster is working out a punishment which I have 
given. I had some moments of horrible anxiety a 
fortnight ago, when I discovered—how I need not 
tell you—that she was on most unsuitable terms 
with our gardener’s boy, a young fellow called 
Marsh. I am afraid it was more her fault than his. 
He was in a state of daze, half hypnotised, it 


124 His Second Venture 

seemed . . . altogether dazzled. I came upon 
them one day, was shocked, but did not then speak, 
thinking it might have been a chance meeting. 
However, I watched, and found that they met every 
day. There were hidden notes; and there were 
kisses-” 

“The young hound! I’ll give him the biggest 

thrashing of his life-” 

“He has gone,” she answered quietly. “There 
was nothing for it but to dismiss him forthwith, 
though he was far less to blame than she, because 
she was quite cool, deliberately experimenting in 
sentiment, while he was in the state I have tried to 
describe. I have sentenced her to do Marsh’s work 
in the garden until Willis has replaced him; and 
she is wonderful; sees the justice of it and is taking 
it finely. I saw Willis privately, instructing him to 
set her a job each day. It is, of course, far less 
than the boy did, but she does not know that. So 
far she has performed it with scrupulous exactitude. 
There’s something fine in her, isn’t there?” 

“But are you sure—sure,” he stammered chok¬ 
ingly, “that that little beast of a boy didn’t-” 

“I am perfectly sure.” 

“Aster can lie like a company promoter-” 

“Agreed. But she does not lie from cowardice, 
only from vanity. She is carried away by the desire 
to pose and be interesting. It was that same craving 
which led her to start an affair with the only avail¬ 
able boy. Now she is beginning to prefer to pose 
upon a pedestal of honour and justice.” 




Miss Kirby in Charge 125 

He rose, holding out his hand. 

“You are a trump. You will be the saving of 
that girl.” 

“She’s not easy to handle,” replied Miss Kirby 
with a sigh, “and yet, do you know, I sometimes 
fancy it is easier to bring up naughty children than 
good children? My Valery never did anything that 
made punishment necessary. Her instinctive feeling 
was always right; and for that reason I don’t think 
I ever really got to understand her. She is much 
deeper and more complicated than I ever supposed. 
Now Aster is so alarmingly variable, she shows 
herself to me each day from so many different 
angles that I am becoming amazingly intimate with 
her. It is a great thing for her to feel that she can 
trust me; and a great thing,” she added, with a 
relieved little sigh, “for me to find that you 
approve.” 


CHAPTER XV 


TWO YEARS LATER 

I T was two years and a half from the date of this 
conversation, and late in March, when one mild 
morning the Marterstead Hunt met on No Man’s 
Land. 

It was one of those exciting, delusive days when 
the English winter whispers in your ear that this is 
positively his last appearance—that spring is com¬ 
ing, with warmth and sunshine and bursting buds. 
The sun shone through a sky of misty blue, faintly 
dappled with white cloud, upon the usual delightful 
medley of vehicles, from touring-cars to side-cars, 
from motor-lorries to butchers’ carts, assembled to 
see the show. 

There was a brave display of pink, and some fine 
horses. Hugh Hatherlegh, of Lannerswyck, walk¬ 
ing his hunter over to where his mother sat in her 
limousine, was glad that fate had called him home 
from the Colonies to dwell in his native shire, even 
at the cost of being chronically “hard up.” 

Beside Mrs. Hatherlegh in the car sat Albinia 
Feranti, looking, as Lady Bowyer, who had a tongue 
of her own, once said, “a creature of mist and 
mystery.” Another critic had likened her to a moth, 
for she affected that faint shade of fawn-colour 
which resembles a moth’s plumage. To-day her 
126 


Two Years Later 127 

head was artistically swathed in chiffon of this tint, 
matching her hair and lightly marked brows, and 
leaving her large eyes to form the only bit of posi¬ 
tive colour—surprising you by their sudden emer¬ 
gence when she looked up—like one star in a night- 
blue sky glimmering from grey cloud. 

She was a distant cousin of the Hatherleghs, and 
her mother had married an Italian. Both were now 
dead, and Albinia lived a life of luxury on very small 
means, by help of her psychic endowments. She 
was a medium, or as she preferred to call herself, a 
super-sensitive, and had been a devoted friend of 
the late Mrs. Caron. 

A couple appeared upon the road from Marter- 
stead, riding side by side, deep in talk and well 
mounted. 

“Hallo!” said Hugh Hatherleigh sharply, 
“there’s a fine girl! Sit her horse, can’t she, 
though? Albinia, who are those two just riding in? 
Man with canary-coloured hair-” 

“Those? Oh”—with sudden interest—“the man 
is Lyndsay Eldrid, the artist—you know—he is 
much admired-” 

“Help! Admired for that hair?” 

“Oh no; but he paints wonderfully. Had a one- 
man show last year, Pyrenean pictures. That must 
be his sister-in-law, the new Mrs. Caron.” 

“That girl? Rot, Albie! She can’t be more 
than eighteen.” 

“Well, I think it must be, but I never saw her. 
Her husband’s the man who was in command of 




128 His Second Venture 

the Chugga Expedition. They went to find some 
buried city or other, and fell foul of the Huns, 
didn’t they?” 

“What, the Caron—the man who has discovered 
Hal-i-Mor?” 

“Yes, that’s the man.” 

“You must be barking up the wrong tree. That 
Caron has been away more than two years, and was 
not heard of at all for more than nine months, don’t 
you remember? Because the Huns raised up the 
Hali tribe of Arabs against them, and the whole 
expedition was corralled.” 

“And the colonel extricated them by means of a 
stratagem, didn’t he? Well, that’s the man I mean. 
His first wife, Blanche, was my devoted friend, so I 
ought to know.” 

“You tell me he left that girl behind, and went 
off to almost certain death-” 

“So I understand. Lyndsay Eldrid is brother to 
the first wife.” 

“That so? He seems to be on excellent terms 
with the second.” 

“Evidently. He was not in sympathy with his 
sister. She was a rare soul, with unusual psychic 
endowments. Poor Lyndsay! I remember he ar¬ 
rived home unexpectedly once; he lived at Arch¬ 
wood with his sister, but was often away. She was 
having a wonderful seance cycle, and he found the 
house full of psychic experts. As she was not ex¬ 
pecting him home, she had put me into his room. 
Poor little me! He was so peeved! Odd menage, 
isn’t it?” 


Two Years Later 129 

“Do you mean that he still lives in the house, and 
that the husband is in Darkest Africa?” 

“So I understand.” 

“Why, I should have thought, even in these lax 
days, that it wasn’t done.” 

“Oh, there’s a duenna, a dear old thing, who 
brought up this girl, and now looks after the entire 
menagerie. Shall I attract Lyndsay Eldrid’s 
attention?” 

“Yes, do. I want to talk to Mrs. Caron.” 

“Oh, bother,” muttered Lyndsay to Valery, 
“there’s the psychic expert making signs to me. 
Last time we met, I dashed into my bedroom and 
found her brushing her hair there! My word, the 
fur flew! I suppose we must ride over and shake 
hands.” 

“Of course. How interesting. I’ve been hoping 
to meet her,” said Val, “but she has been away 
whenever I have been at Archwood.” 

They walked the horses over to where the Lan- 
nerswyck party awaited them. In appearance and 
manner Valery Caron was now the product of per¬ 
fect training, physical and mental. She had the air 
of self-possession, of poise, which had been so 
lamentably lacking in Valery Knight. Her manner, 
nevertheless, was frank and simple, quite free from 
the least touch of priggishness. 

“It seems odd,” she said presently, when they 
were all introduced and talking to each other, “that 
we should not have met before; but Miss Kirby has 
had to do most of my visiting for me, as I have 
been at Oxford.” 


130 His Second Venture 

“Oxford!” echoed Hugh. 

“Yes. I got married before my education was 
complete, and when they sent off my husband upon 
that terrible Expedition, I thought I might as well 
go up to the ’Varsity to fill in the time.” 

“Have you completed your course?” he wished 
to know. 

“Not until next term; but I feel my terrors are 
looming very near now, and my tutor packed me off 
home for a week-end, as she thought I was getting 
stale.” 

“I blessed that tutor, I can tell you,” said Lynd- 
say. “She has been slaving and slaving, term and 
vacation alike—no end good for her to get a day 
off.” 

“And isn’t the weather being kind to us?” 
laughed Valery. “I’m enjoying every minute of 
it!” 

“And when do you expect Colonel Caron back?” 
asked Albinia softly. The question seemed to chill 
the manner of both Lyndsay and Valery; ever so 
slightly, but perceptibly to a super-sensitive. 

Lyndsay answered. “I expect you have learned 
from the papers that Caron has been fearfully ill. 
He was in an unget-at-able spot called Tahoura, 
where he could not be reached. There was a French 
hospital there, however, and we hope to hear that 
he is in Europe quite soon.” 

“Is it true,” asked Hatherlegh, “that there is 
grave suspicion of Hun complicity in the circum¬ 
stances of the capture and imprisonment of the 
Expedition?” 


Two Years Later 131 

“Seems more than probable,” replied Lyndsay at 
once. “We think that is why we are receiving so 
comparatively meagre an amount cf news. A great 
deal took place, no doubt, on that Expedition which 
will never appear in the Press. I have heard it sug¬ 
gested that my brother-in-law will have to be careful 
of himself—that he goes in fear of assassination; 
but we hope that is exaggeration.” 

“Do come and have tea to-morrow afternoon, 
Miss Feranti, and bring Mr. Hatherlegh,” said 
Valery, who had been talking to the old lady. “Mrs. 
Hatherlegh says she does not go out to tea, but we 
should be delighted to see you.” 

“Dare I,” asked Hugh, “have tea with a lady 
who is reading Greats? I know not a word of the 
doctrine of the enclitic D or any other congenial 
topic.” 

“Pm only reading for an English literature de¬ 
gree, and I don’t think we talk shop any more than 
the men do,” said Val with her fine smile. “I would 
like you to meet Miss Kirby; she is one of the very 
best.” 

“The most wonderful woman in England, bar 
none,” declared Lyndsay solemnly. “I am seriously 
thinking of asking her to marry me. I don’t sup¬ 
pose there’s more than a quarter of a century be¬ 
tween us—just the fashionable disparity.” 

“Is she what my old nurse used to speak of as a 
‘bar bloo’?” asked Hugh. 

“Not a bit of it. A chimney-corner Victorian, 
who always has the linen aired, the dinner hot, the 


132 His Second Venture 

maids contented, the house clean, and the fire going. 
I’ve never been so happy in my life.” 

“Then go home and propose without an instant’s 
delay,” advised Hugh solemnly, “or you will find 
you have at least one rival. Such beings are all too 
rare in a post-w r ar world.” 

“She’s more than rare, she’s unique,” replied 
Lyndsay, “and Mrs. Caron here is the result of her 
training.” 

“Look here, you know, your swank’s a bit intol¬ 
erable,” complained Hatherlegh, but had no time 
for more, as the hounds had by this time arrived, 
and in a very few moments the hunt moved off, 
tailing away gently towards the first covert, to be 
drawn and followed by a determined crowd of 
cyclists and foot passengers. 

It was a record day. They found almost at once; 
and their fox, after giving them a splendid run was 
killed in the open up on Winstable Downs. 

The following afternoon Hugh drove Miss 
Feranti over to tea at Archwood, as invited. The 
fine weather held, and the old place was seen to 
great advantage, rows of brilliant crocus aflame in 
the borders, blue scillas and snowdrops spangling 
the grass. 

Miss Kirby found Hugh Hatherlegh charming. 
He did not seem to think it a bother to talk to an 
elderly woman. He was evidently deeply interested 
in Valery, and it was not difficult to induce Kirdles 
to talk of her. 


Two Years Later 133 

“Yes,” said the good woman, “she is to me just 
like my own; and to my love for her has been added 
a great compassion, because all her life she has had 
to suffer from what I hold a great evil—separation 
from her nearest and dearest. Her parents were in 
India—her father died there. When her mother at 
last came home, she was a stranger to her own child, 
and they did not understand one another. Valery 
married at once; poor girl, I really think she did it 
to escape the bitterness of her disappointment, for 
she had idolised the idea of her mother, and the 
reality proved so different. And then, hardly was 
she married, than she found herself completely 
separated from her husband; and such a state of 
things is dangerous, because it is unnatural.” 

“Let me see—her mother is Lady Jerrold, is she 
not? I think Albinia said she had met her in Egypt, 
the winter before last.” 

“Yes. They are abroad a great deal. We have 
spent the last two summers in Valery’s own house, 
which came to her from her father—Grendon 
Grange, in Westmorland; and Sir Otho Jerrold’s 
place is not far off, so she and her mother have seen 
a little of each other, but not much. My poor child 
has been terribly alone but for me.” 

“I suppose Colonel Caron is on his way home 
now?” 

“We hope so, but communication has been very 
difficult. While he was so ill the Government was 
very good in giving us news of him; and the French 
Government, too, for he was ill in Algeria, and they 


134 His Second Venture 

sent bulletins most carefully. It was ever so far 
inland, and a place where they said no white woman 
could go; and, moreover, he was so desperately ill 
that the end would have come long before Valery 
could have reached him, even if she could have got 
there, which seemed more than doubtful. He dic¬ 
tated a letter when he was convalescent, saying he 
should start for Europe the moment the doctors 
gave leave; and we are expecting letters or a cable 
any day.” 

“Bilson and Cartwright, his two subalterns, are 
both home.” 

“Yes. But they have no recent news of him, 
because they did not go to Tahoura at all, but came 
home by some other route which was shorter. They 
sent the colonel to Tahoura on account of the hos¬ 
pital there.” 

“Well, he’ll be much feted when he does get back. 
How long had they been married when he went 
away?” 

Kirdles hesitated, but decided that concealment 
was useless, since the circumstances of the Caron 
marriage were pretty widely known. “Did you not 
know? They were parted on their wedding-day. 
He found the Government summons when they got 
back from church.” 

“Hard luck, indeed! And they have never met 
since?” 

“Never.” 

“Jove!”—with deep interest—“I wonder what 
will happen when they do 1” 


CHAPTER XVI 


ALBINIA TAKES A HAND 

Y OUR dear and lovely old-world gardenF 
sighed Albinia, who always contrived to say 
the obvious thing elaborately. “Do let us go and 
walk in it. To me it is filled with memories . . . 
yes, and more than memories,” she murmured, 
lifting her big eyes to Lyndsay. “To me it is a 
haunted garden . . . and to-day I have brought my 
camera. Do you think Mrs. Caron will resent it 
if I experiment? Sometimes I obtain wonderful 
results.” 

“I’m sure Val will have no objection to your 
taking snapshots, but I advise you not to suggest 
to her that you hope to capture the shade of her 
predecessor,” returned Lyndsay dryly, as he pushed 
the french window wider and they stepped out upon 
the gravel. 

They were followed, after a while, by Valery and 
Hatherlegh; and the sun was so warm that for a 
time they stood and sat about quite contentedly 
while Miss Feranti took photos of them, in various 
spots which had been, as Lyn remembered, most 
frequented by his sister in her lifetime. 

Before long, however, Val and Hugh forsook the 
garden for the stable-yard. The boys had started 
i35 


136 His Second Venture 

breeding Sealyhams; and Hatherlegh, it appeared, 
was something of an authority. The vociferous 
infants were housed in wonderful modern sanitary 
cages, and the inspection was quite a lengthy matter. 

Albinia, left to poor Lyndsay, who was always 
hopelessly bored by her intensity, moved sighingly 
along the walk, yew-bordered and terminating in a 
sundial, set in a circular yew enclosure, which was 
the show-bit of the Archwood garden. In summer 
it was filled with lilies and delphiniums and orange 
alstrcemerias, but now the borders were purple and 
gold with crocus, and the hyacinths were just thrust¬ 
ing stubby green noses from the teeming earth. 
The psychic lady drew in deep breaths. 

“All this garden is fragrant to me of your ex¬ 
quisite sister. Was she not a rare soul? I have 
had so much talk with her since she passed over. 
It was a wonder and a shock to her pure faith, that 
her handsome husband consoled himself so quickly.” 

“Indeed? If so, she must have become much less 
intelligent than she was upon the earth plane. She 
had, by her own wish, lived apart from Carfrae 
for so many years that they were quite estranged; 
and she must have known that a young widower 
can’t look after a houseful of children without 
help.” 

“Oh,” said Albinia softly, “she knew, of course, 
that on this plane she had never reached her hus¬ 
band’s soul; but she always told me that she fully 
expected, when she passed on, to double her in¬ 
fluence over him.” 


Albinia Takes a Hand 137 

“I don’t think she has succeeded,” returned 
Lyndsay bluntly. 

“Ah, I ought to remember that, according to your 
pose, you are quite earth-bound,” rejoined the lady 
tenderly. “But with me you need not pretend. 
Whence comes the soul in those wonderful pictures 
of yours, if you are really no more than you feign 
to be ? You only mock at psychic things because you 
dare not face their implications.” 

“Please allow me to say that I don’t mock at 
psychic things at all. But I knew my sister—I 
venture to suppose that I knew her better than you 
did. She had good points, but her failing was her 
egotism. She was too self-centred to influence 
Carfrae, alive or dead.” 

“Colonel Caron is very hard,” murmured Albinia. 
“Forgive my saying so. He is so marvellously 
handsome, he would have conquered any girl he 
choose to woo; but he never gave himself—his in¬ 
most being—to darling Blanche.” 

“I am sure Blanche never wanted it.” 

“Oh, Mr. Eldrid! It was the tragedy of her life 
to be misunderstood.” 

“The tragedy of her life was to think herself so. 
Miss Feranti—you are making me say unpardonable 
things about my sister; but there is such a thing 
as justice. I was always very sorry for Carfrae.” 

“If he could have but divined the truth! I am 
full of sympathy for them both. How blind we 
poor mortals are! Let us hope his second marriage 
will help him to cultivate his soul.” 


138 His Second Venture 

“It ought to; Mrs. Caron is a most exceptional 
girl. It doesn’t take a psychic expert to see that.” 

“I am so interested to have met her. What a 
fortunate chance she was home for just this par¬ 
ticular day! I am off to Rome to-morrow.” 

“Indeed! I didn’t know.” 

“Yes, I am going to my great friend Madame 
Bellarno, a wonderful mystic who lives in the Via 
Gregoriana. I am thirsting for her and for Italy. 
I always winter in my native land, you know, but 
this year I had to stay with my aunt after uncle’s 
death, until Hugh could get home, across the 
world.” 

She rambled on, about Blanche and her psychic 
powers, until Miss Kirby called them in to tea to the 
immense relief of her listener. 

When their visitors had gone, he sank into a deep 
chair, and wiped his brow. 

“Val, you are a wretch to leave me with that 
creepy-crawly creature all the afternoon!” 

“Oh, sorry, poor old boy. I was liking Mr. 
Hatherlegh very much.” 

“Yes, I’m glad he’s come home, he’ll be a nice 
neighbour—won’t he?—next summer, when your 
troubles are over, and you have not your nose ever¬ 
lastingly in an Anglo-Saxon grammar.” 

Val, as Lyn expressed it, “shut up like a clam.” 
She never made any reply to allusions to the future, 
as he knew well. He longed to ask her what her 
intentions were, how she felt about her husband’s 


Albinia Takes a Hand 139 

return, which must now be imminent. She never 
gave him a chance. 

Only the previous week, Lyndsay had encoun¬ 
tered, in town, young Bilson, one of the men who 
had been with Caron, and had heard from him a 
great deal which was perfectly new to him respecting 
their doings and their hardships. He said nothing 
to Val of this meeting, because it was humiliating 
for her that her husband should so delay his return; 
but it could not be put off for ever. Quite shortly, 
husband and wife must meet; and then, what? 

A fortnight later, in the warm sunshine of the 
Roman spring, Miss Feranti was gracefully descend¬ 
ing the steps from the Trinita dei Monti to the 
Piazza di Spagna. Her soulful eyes were shaded by 
a wide hat-brim and a sunshade, and she was mur¬ 
muring to the Italian professor who escorted her 
something of her feelings when she beheld the 
masses of flowers, narcissus, anemone, mimosa, 
which were piled upon the stalls at the foot of the 
steps, when her eyes fell upon the figure of a tall 
Englishman, slowly ascending, in company with the 
French Ambassador, and followed by a couple of 
attaches. 

She uttered an excited cry of recognition. 
“Colonel Caron! Oh, I can’t be mistaken! I did 
not know that you were back in Europe!” 

Caron stopped short, dark colour invading his 
face, which would have been very pale but for its 
tan. He had altered and aged. The desert had 


140 His Second Venture 

left upon him its ravaging mark. For a moment 
he looked like a boy caught robbing an orchard. 
The next, he was greeting her with cordiality. 
“Miss Feranti! I might have guessed that you 
would be here. Are you with Madame Bellarno, 
as usual?” 

“Yes, I am. How full Rome is, is it not? and 
more delightful than ever! I suppose you are 
passing through? I was at Archwood, having tea, 
only a fortnight ago, and saw your beautiful young 
wife. They told me you have been ill, and you still 
look far from strong-” 

“Archwood? Indeed! You can give me the 
latest news, then,” he took her up quickly. “May 
I call upon you and hear more? I am pressed for 
time for the moment—or, rather, my companion is. 
Are you in the Via Gregoriana?” 

She said that she was, and at once fixed a day for 
him to call upon her, and Caron, who had only made 
the appointment that he might now at once get rid 
of her, pursued his way with the Ambassador to 
the Villa Medici, there to discourse of Hal-i-Mor 
with the men who had unearthed Timgad. 

The sight of Albinia gave a jolt to his conscience. 
He felt distinctly uncomfortable. He wished that 
she had not fixed a date four days ahead, for he 
wanted to give her some excuse that might sound 
not too inadequate for his leisurely return. 

He was restless and on tenter-hooks until the date 
appointed, and felt relieved when he went to the 
Via Gregoriana to find that Madame Bellarno was 



Albinia Takes a Hand 141 

out, though she hoped to get back in time to see 
him; and that Albinia received him alone. 

He had his tale ready. 

4 ‘I’ve been ill,” he said, “in fact, I suppose I’ve 
had as near a squeak for it as ever man had; and 
when I landed in Europe I looked like nothing on 
earth, and I couldn’t go home like that, not only 
because my wife is young, and we have been parted 
much too long, but also because I find I am to be 
lionised, and one must pick up one’s strength, in 
order to go through that kind of thing.” 

“Oh, indeed, I see your point of view, and I 
sympathise ... I ought to congratulate the hero 
of the hour-” 

He gave a deprecating shrug. “Well,” he said, 
“I sneaked off to Rapallo, where I thought I could 
lie doggo for a while; but I was only there ten days. 
The Government dug me out, and I have talked 
African politics with them, and Roman civilisation 
with the British and the French Schools, until I wish 
that Hal-i-Mor had resisted all our efforts to un¬ 
cover it, and remained under the sand until the 
crack of doom.” 

“Poor fellow! Indeed I sympathise! But if I 
venture to say so, I hope you will go home as soon 
as they allow you to do so.” 

Something in her tone made him ask quickly, 
“Why? Is anything wrong?” 

“Wrong? What an idea! No, because every¬ 
thing is so superlatively right! In your own super¬ 
comfortable home, with the marvellous Miss Kirby 



142 His Second Venture 

in charge, and your beautiful and accomplished 
wife to nurse you back to health, you would make 
far quicker progress. Look at Lyndsay! Since he 
came back from the Pyrenees, he has never left 
home once, except to go to the Lakes with the 
family in the summer! And, oh! Talking of Lynd¬ 
say, is not that a marvellous portrait he has painted 
of your wife? Without doubt his chef-d’oeuvre; and 
so remarkable because portraits are not his line. 
A veritable inspiration! But, of course, you have 
heard all about it. It was one of the successes of 
last summer’s Academy.” 

It is difficult to express how much this information 
surprised Caron. What he expected his wife and 
family to do with themselves during his prolonged 
absence is not easy to say; but this news of their 
activities was wholly unexpected. He contrived to 
convey the impression that he, of course, knew about 
the portrait, and was wondering how to question 
the lady further without revealing his own shameful 
ignorance, when she went to a side-table and took 
up some loose photos. 

“Look!” said she, “I put these out, thinking 
they may be more recent than anything you have 
seen. I did them the other day at Archwood, in the 
garden. When this one was done,” she explained, 
laughing softly, “I need hardly say that they did not 
know I was shooting!” 

The print showed a young maid and a man stand¬ 
ing facing each other; Lyndsay in the act of re¬ 
moving a fly from Valery’s eye. The girl stood on 


Albinia Takes a Hand 143 

tiptoe, hands plunged into the pockets of her long 
coat which, hanging open, showed the graceful out¬ 
line of her in a pale-hued frock. Her chin was 
tilted, she was smiling mischievously. 

“Rather felicitous, don’t you think?” said 
Albinia, laughing softly; “but this one perhaps gives 
you a better idea of her.” 

She showed a group in which Val had her lap full 
of Sealyham pups, and was flanked on either side 
by Lyndsay and Hatherlegh. There were two or 
three others, each with the backgrounds he knew 
so well—the yew-walk, the gravel terrace—his own 
domain; his own wife; but surely, these must be 
absurdly flattered. 

“They seemed to think, when we were talking, 
that you had not received by any means all their 
letters,” went on this lady, “so possibly you have 
not seen this?” She displayed a really exquisite 
photograph in sepia carbon, evidently taken from 
an oil-painting. “I admired this so, I bullied poor 
Mr. Eldrid into giving me one. Is it not like look¬ 
ing at her? They had it reproduced for her to give 
her fellow undergrads when she leaves Oxford this 
summer.” 

Carfrae Caron took the photo from her in a sort 
of stupefaction. This girl was not only beautiful, 
but unusual. Her face expressed so much—was 
moulded upon such fine lines—that its effect was 
wonderful. 

The dress—it looked white—was hung from the 
shoulders in Greek fashion, and was unrelieved by 


144 His Second Venture 

any ornament. The hair was arranged in exact 
sympathy with the shape and the type of the face. 
Anything less like his own memories of his bride 
could hardly be imagined. 

“You are right,” he murmured. “I see this for 
the first time. Many of my things must have gone 
astray.” 

“Quite wonderful, isn’t it?” she cooed. “But, 
of course, one must remember that the painter had 
every advantage. Living in the same house, study¬ 
ing her daily, knowing her in each varying mood, 
he could choose exactly what suited her best.” 

“Her term must be over by now,” she went on, 
as still the man’s eyes were glued to the portrait. 
“How delighted Lyndsay will be to have her back! 
It was pretty to see how pleased he was when he 
brought her to the Meet. She had a week-end given 
her, because they thought she was overworking. 
A brisk gallop did her all the good in the world— 
what a horsewoman she is! . . . Well, I suppose 
Lyndsay’s innings is almost over now, for you must 
be returning to England fairly soon.” 

“Yes,” replied Caron, to his own unutterable 
surprise. “I am off to-morrow.” 

“To-morrow?” She could not altogether conceal 
her astonishment. “Isn’t that rather sudden?” she 
ventured, holding out her hand for the photo he 
held. 

“I’m going to make a very bold request. Will 
you give me this photo? When I return home I will 


Albina Takes a Hand 145 

post you another copy, but for the present I should 
much like to keep this.” 

“Delighted,” she murmured, “and do accept a 
copy of each of these snaps also. You will feel 
more up-to-date in the family news.” 

“Thank you. My mails have evidently missed 
me, and that makes me uneasy, because it may mean 
that those at home have not received by any means, 
all the news I sent them. I must get back as soon 
as possible; and meanwhile all my gratitude for your 
news and your charming gift.” 

Caron hardly knew how he got away at the end 
of his visit. Somehow he found himself out in the 
street, and making for his hotel in the Via Sistina, 
to dress for a dinner which was being given in his 
honour by the members of the British School. 

It was late enough in the afternoon for the tall 
houses to throw broad shadow over one side of the 
road; and as he crossed into it he was aware of a 
youngish man, lounging against the wall, who stood 
unostentatiously upright, and then began to walk in 
the direction he was taking. 

For a moment he remembered the warnings he 
had received respecting the determination of the 
Hali tribe to assassinate him; and wondered 
whether the Italian Government were setting a 
guard upon him. He decided, however, that this 
was too ridiculous, and walked calmly on. Never¬ 
theless, he did not go straight into his hotel as he 
had intended, for his mind was in a ferment; but 


146 His Second Venture 

strolled on towards the Pincian, pausing opposite 
the Villa Medici, where the road widens and one has 
a glorious view, over the parapet, of Rome lying at 
one’s feet. 

As usual, there were plenty of people about, and 
he took his seat upon the bench against the wall, 
leaning over and meditating. He was facing an 
entirely new, disturbing, exciting future. 

He began to think back. During most of his long 
absence, until the capture of the Expedition had 
interrupted all communication, he had heard with 
regularity from Valery. That her letters should 
be dull and stereotyped, containing no news of 
interest, had not surprised him at all. Her matter- 
of-fact news concerning the children, their aches 
and pains, their pleasures, their progress at school, 
their growth, and so on, had been just what he had 
expected. They fitted in with his own idea of what 
Valery was; but they fitted in so little with what 
Valery had apparently become, that he began to 
consider them with more attention; and he remem¬ 
bered that he had missed something in all of them. 
Something which he had expected inevitably to find, 
was not there; was never there; the inference being 
that it was omitted intentionally and deliberately. 
He recalled distinctly that particularly in the first 
letters he received, he had looked for some kind of 
outpouring of feeling over their separation, of long¬ 
ing for his return. Had there been much of it, he 
would certainly have skipped it; but he now realised 
that there had never been one word of the kind. 
Valery had told him nothing of herself, beyond the 


Albinia Takes a Hand 147 

bare fact that she was at Oxford, or that she was 
at home. She had never touched upon her feelings, 
and never penned any kind of appeal. The invari¬ 
able “Dear Carfrae” was as unimpassioned as the 
concluding “Yours, Valery.” 

This was curious, and it piqued him. He drew 
out the little bundle of snapshots and studied them 
carefully. How came it that he had never noticed 
before that, although a good many snapshots of 
children, dogs, Lyndsay and even Miss Kirby had 
reached him, he had never received one with a por¬ 
trait of Val? 

In the light of what Albinia had told him, he 
conceived of a reason for these omissions: a reason 
which was by no means Val’s stupidity. 

When he and she parted, he had thought his 
chance of return hardly worth considering. He had 
not dwelt upon the development of the situation 
when he should meet his wife again, because it 
seemed so unlikely a contingency. Now suddenly, 
like an unexpected light in a dark place, there 
gleamed upon him a wonderful prospect. 

Albinia’s innuendoes notwithstanding, he had no 
fears with regard to Val’s allegiance. She had been 
besottedly in love with him. She was also exceed¬ 
ingly dutiful and almost sickeningly moral. He was 
her husband, and so that was that. Studying the 
interesting face, feature by feature, he felt thankful 
indeed that she was so eminently presentable, since 
she would have to make some very public appear¬ 
ances. He would stop in Paris on his way back to 
buy her some pretty things. He had just received 


148 His Second Venture 

his passbook from his English bank, and the balance 
in his favour was as pleasant as it was surprising. 
Miss Kirby had proved not merely a faithful but 
a most able steward. 

In his letters to Val he had been careful to main¬ 
tain the fiction of his having been torn from her 
by inexorable duty. So assiduously had he held this 
idea before him, that he had begun to believe in it 
himself. He saw that it would be very awkward for 
him if she should learn, as she easily might, by way 
of the Feranti woman and the Hatherleghs, that he 
was now lingering abroad instead of hastening home 
to her. The only thing to do was so to expedite his 
own departure that he should be with her before 
such tittle-tattle could find its way. 

He drew out his watch; and as he did so, the clock 
of the Trinita, softly striking, told him that he had 
plenty of time before he need dress. He rose and 
descended the steps to the Piazza, noting as he 
passed that the dark young man with the curved 
nose who had been standing in the shade in the Via 
Gregoriana also rose, and moved slowly after him. 
As he crossed the Piazza and went a little way along 
the Via Babuino, he wondered whether there was 
anything in it. 

Pausing at one of those delightful shops where 
they sell wares in tooled leather, he purchased a 
frame to contain the photo just given him by Miss 
Feranti. Then he went back to Cook’s office and 
bought his tickets for the morrow. 


CHAPTER XVII 


HOMEWARD BOUND 

W HEN Caron, after that night’s banquet, 
announced his immediate departure, and his 
cordial host and hostess cried out upon him, urging 
him to stay longer in order to meet all kinds of 
great ones, shortly expected in Rome, he drew out 
his lately acquired photo and displayed it with a 
smile. 

“That’s my wife, and she’s waiting for me.” He 
triumphed when he found that Valery was univer¬ 
sally admitted to be good and sufficient reason for 
haste. 

As he was driven back to his hotel, through the 
gardens of the Pincian, under the night skies of 
Italy, he felt more excited than he had done for 
years. 

For very long he had been as it were dead to 
the calls of sex. His personal disappointment, his 
calamitous first marriage, his loneliness and his 
pride had built up barriers round his heart. In this 
warm spring night he knew that he was young and 
a man; and for the first time in many years the 
future looked alluring. 

Upon reaching his room in the hotel, he went 
straight to the mirror and stared fixedly at his own 
149 


150 His Second Venture 

image. While Valery had been blossoming, he had 
been withering. The tiny crisped curls on his hand¬ 
some temples were touched with silver; and he 
grimly compared his complexion to the leather of 
his suit-case. 

Adney, his devoted batman, was in the room, 
busily packing clothes. This man had braved the 
Chugga desert with him, and was invaluable. He 
was never ill, never out of temper, never surprised. 
Caron was not sure that he did not prefer Adney 
to any other living creature. He felt an uncom¬ 
fortable suspicion that he would feel his loss more 
than that of one of his own children. 

“Adney,” he said, “I’ve a kind of notion that 
there’s a chap following me about.” 

The man paused, raising his eyes from the collars 
he was counting. “Indeed, sir? Well, I wouldn’t 
be over and above surprised.” 

“Chap that looks like a Turk but might be an 
Arab of sorts. Curly nose, heavy-lidded black 


“Come to think of it, believe I’ve seen him,” 
replied Adney with interest. “Loafing outside this 
hotel.” 

“Well, we shall soon know. He was following 
me, or so I thought, this afternoon, and must have 
seen me go into Cook’s office in the Piazza. If we 
see him on the boat, or in England, we’ll just give 
the tip to Scotland Yard, I think.” 

“And we’ll keep our eyes skinned on the journey,” 



Homeward Bound 151 

replied Adney. “Lord, I’ve learnt to be quick with 
my shooting since the year before last!” 

“He’s probably not an assassin, but merely a spy, 
employed to track me down, learn my habits, and 
so on; but we’ll take no chances, Adney.” Slowly 
he drew forth his picture and set it down upon the 
table. “I met a friend of Mrs. Caron’s to-day, and 
she gave me this. I don’t want to be picked off 
when I’ve got that to go home to.” 

Adney sat back on his heels, contemplating the 
portrait, and nodded several times with conviction. 
u That’s the stuff to give ’em, sir,” said he; “no 
wonder you’re off. If I might make so bold, I think 
you want the English air too—and English food— 
and so on-” 

“Yes, I’m a bit of a caricature,” replied his 
master, in sudden dejection. “Perhaps it’s a good 
thing for me that she’s already married me—eh? 
I look twenty years older than I did when she saw 
me last.” 

“That’ll all come right, sir. A summer at home 
and you’ll not know yourself.” 

“A summer at home” repeated Caron softly; 
and his usually hard eyes were clouded and misty 
with dreams. 

Easter fell early that year, and the trains were 
packed with the yearly exodus of the British from 
the Eternal City. Adney came to his master shortly 
after leaving Genoa, and said: 

“That Chugga lad is in this train, sir. Thought 
I’d let you know. I’ve given a hint to the con- 



152 His Second Venture 

ductor feller—he’s French, and a good sort. We’re 
all right in the wagon-lit.” 

“That seems to make it pretty clear, doesn’t it?” 
said Caron thoughtfully. “Wonder what he’s 
after.” 

When they had crossed the frontier and Modane 
was left behind, Adney came with more news. 
“He’s not come through to France, sir. Seems he 
didn’t know he had to get another passport. They 
turned him back. I heard it. He spoke very poor 
Eye-talian, and they was all storming at him some¬ 
thing awful. Guard found him copying the address 
on your baggage and they took him for a train thief. 
I think he’s off his job for the present.” 

“Good!” said Caron, and was himself surprised 
at the relief the news gave him. Now he could rest 
—now he could indulge in castles in the air, such as 
he had not built since he was a boy. 

The journey, however, tried him more than he 
had foreseen, and he found himself obliged to rest 
a couple of nights in Paris. This delay made him 
later than he had intended, and it was Easter Day 
when they arrived in London. 

The climate had a sobering effect. He came out 
of his rosy dreams into a world swept by a black 
east wind. Adney fussed over him, and urged him 
to abandon his design of arriving home quite un¬ 
announced, to the extent of telegraphing to be met 
at the station. “You go and catch a really bad 
cold, and you’ll be put back weeks and weeks,” he 
said hectoringly, to the vast annoyance of the man 


Homeward Bound 153 

who, for the first time in fifteen years, felt inclined 
to play the lover. 

However, he did yield the point, to the extent 
of permitting the dispatch of the telegram. It 
would have been wiser to telephone; for, owing to 
the Bank Holiday, and the local dislocation of the 
postal service, the message did not come to hand 
until about eleven o’clock on Monday morning. 

Miss Kirby was pottering round her conservatory 
—the one which opened from the dining-room— 
when the unexpected yellow envelope arrived. She 
was feeling thankful that Val and Lyn had gone 
off with a party for the day, and she had the house 
to herself. 

The news took her completely aback. Knowing 
what she knew, her first impulse was to warn Val¬ 
ery, and that was impossible. They had gone to the 
Point-to-Point races, right over at London Colney, 
the other side of Marterstead. 

They had expected some warning of this long 
overdue arrival; but as far as preparations for the 
reception of the traveller went, they needed but the 
finishing touches. Kirdles hurried off to summon 
her staff, but her heart was crying out: “What will 
happen? What on earth will happen now?” 

When Caron stepped out of the annoyingly slow 
train in which, owing to the Bank Holiday, he had 
been forced to make the short journey from town, 
he hardly knew whether it was relief or disappoint- 


154 His Second Venture 

ment which he experienced in seeing the platform 
vacant. 

A chauffeur with a pleasant face approached and 
touched his cap. “Colonel Caron?” he said inter¬ 
rogatively; and as Caron surrendered his attache 
case, he added, “The car’s just outside, and Miss 
Kirby’s sending a cart for the luggage, but she had 
a trouble to find a man who would go, owing to the 
Bank Holiday, sir.” 

A limousine was in waiting. “Miss Kirby 
thought you’d prefer the closed car—the wind’s 
bitter this afternoon.” As he carefully adjusted a 
fur-lined rug, the chauffeur added that he hoped 
the colonel would not mind being driven round 
through the paddock as the drive was just being 
new-gravelled. 

Caron hardly heard what he said. “All well at 
Archwood?” he demanded, almost fiercely. 

“Yes, sir, all well. Hope you’re quite recovered, 
sir, if I may make so free? My name’s Baker.” 

The man’s eyes were eagerly admiring—the eyes 
of an ex-soldier, who can appreciate a hero. Caron 
noted that he spoke of Miss Kirby, not Mrs. Caron, 
as having given the orders. He wondered on what 
basis the household was run. He had never stated 
in plain terms who was to be mistress in his absence. 

Could Valery be upset—bowled over by the shock 
of his unexpected arrival? He told himself that 
he had been inconsiderate to the last; ought to have 
given her more notice, poor little soul! . . . 
However, she’d soon get over that. It wouldn’t 


Homeward Bound 155 

take her long to discover that this was not merely 
her husband who had come back to her, but her 
eager lover . . . and then . . . 

His eyes softened and glowed at the thought of 
her waiting here for him, safe under the wing of the 
motherly old Kirby; doing her duty; hoping, praying 
for his safety. 

He was struck, as they entered his property, by its 
general air of prosperity and well-being. “Hallo!” 
he thought, as they passed an old half-timbered cot¬ 
tage near the gate, “they’ve actually succeeded in 
letting the Dairy Lodge! Had it restored and let 
it well, apparently! How pretty it looks!” 

The house in question, being too large for the 
cottage folk and in too bad a state of repair for 
gentry, had always been an eyesore and an anxiety. 
He recalled things which Lyn had said in his letters 
of Miss Kirby’s administrative ability, and it cheered 
him; but his mind could not dwell upon it. As the 
car slid up to the door he leaned forward with 
a heart beating violently. It was wiser of Val not 
to risk a meeting before strangers—on the wind¬ 
swept railway platform. Here in their home on 
their own threshold she would meet him, and- 

The door opened immediately, and the substan¬ 
tial form of Miss Kirby appeared, suitably clad in 
dark-blue silk. He noted that her hair had turned 
quite silver-white, which gave her a look of distinc¬ 
tion. Her demeanour, however, was so unsmiling 
that, in spite of Baker’s assurance of a clean bill of 
health, he felt convinced that Valery must be ill. 



156 His Second Venture 

He was out and up the steps before Adney could 
open the door. “How de do? How de do? 
Where’s my wife?” 

“I am sorry to have to tell you that both she 
and Mr. Eldrid are out.” The tone was polite but 
seemed to him conspicuously lacking in warmth. 
“I must explain that your wire was not delivered 
here from Marterstead until eleven o’clock this 
morning, and they had already gone off to the 
Point-to-Point races. I could not send word to 
them, for I had given Baker the day off, and had to 
fetch him back in order to have you met.” 

He stood arrested. “The Point-to-Point races! 
Why, of course! It’s Easter Monday. Fancy my 
forgetting. Is it London Colney?” 

“Yes, that is where they have gone.” 

“Too late for me to go there,” he glanced at his 
watch regretfully, but glad to have his wife’s absence 
thus satisfactorily explained. He entered the hall. 
“Well, well, how goes it? I think my first words 
should be an expression of gratitude to you, Miss 
Kirby.” 

“I hardly see where gratitude comes in,” was her 
sober reply. “At least wait until you receive the 
account of my stewardship.” 

She opened the door of his own haunt—the 
formerly chaotic smoking-room. It looked most in¬ 
viting, with a gay fire, the tea-things ready, and a 
fascinating arm-chair waiting to receive him. “I 
thought,” she went on with some hesitation in her 
manner, “that you would prefer to be here, because 


Homeward Bound 157 

the young people are bringing back several friends 
to tea, and I am not sure how far your convalescence 
is advanced. We hear that you have been very ill.” 

The final sentence, quietly and coldly spoken, 
brought home to Caron for positively the first time, 
the picture of his own conduct from the point of 
view of his family. 

Since leaving Africa he had not sent home one 
word. He had been so uncertain of himself, so 
much at a loss as to what line to take with regard 
to his wife, that he had put the whole idea of his 
home-coming away from him. Knowing it to be 
inevitable, he had yet sheltered himself behind his 
weak health and doctor’s orders, with a vague 
underlying idea that he might get some specialist to 
forbid him to go to England at all. 

He had not realised that the fierce light which 
beats, from the Press, upon the man of the moment, 
made his doings public property. As long as he was 
abroad, he had not paused to consider how his con¬ 
duct would appear to those at home. He had six 
months’ leave: the papers proclaimed it joyously. 
He had a Treasury grant: the papers asserted it 
to be well-deserved. He had the offer of a title: 
the papers wished all titles were as fairly earned. 
Yet he had supposed that like the ostrich he could 
hide his head in the sand and nobody would know 
where he was or what he was doing. Now, listen¬ 
ing to the chilly courtesy of Miss Kirby, he saw not 
merely the discourtesy but the utter folly of the 
course he had followed. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A CONJUGAL GREETING 
DNEY relieved his master of the heavy top¬ 



coat he had worn in deference to the arctic 


blasts of the English spring, and he sank down 
rather limply into the arm-chair by the fire. 

He politely hoped that Miss Kirby would not be 
inconvenienced by his having brought Adney. “He’s 
got long leave, and he’ll be off home in a few days’ 
time,” he explained, “but he thought he would see 
me settled in first.” 

Adney stood gazing at Miss Kirby with eyes full 
of smouldering resentment. He thought his hero 
was receiving a most inadequate welcome, to say the 
least of it. 

“I shan’t go, sir, till I’ve found out who’s going 
to wait on you, and shown him what you require,” 
said he stiffly. 

“You’ll do just as you’re told, Adney,” replied 
the colonel irritably. “Off with you, now, and see 
if the luggage has come.” 

“We have kept no man-servant indoors since you 
have been abroad,” said Miss Kirby in apology. 
“The head housemaid waits upon Mr. Eldrid, and I 
understand he is well satisfied; but if you instruct 
me to do so, I will at once engage someone to wait 


A Conjugal Greeting 159 

on you. Do you still require nursing? I naturally 
do not know.” 

“Nursing? Nonsense! I’m perfectly well,” cried 
Caron in vexation; and then reflected that the admis¬ 
sion was hardly politic. As soon as Adney had left 
the room he made a gesture for Miss Kirby to sit 
down. “Unless you are very busy, please give me a 
few minutes,” he begged. “I am, as you see, well 
enough now, but I have been ill—very ill indeed. 
When first they let me loose out of hospital I looked 
like nothing on earth. I’m not much to boast of 
now, but I didn’t want to come home such a scare¬ 
crow that my own family didn’t know me. So I 
crept off to the Italian Riviera to convalesce; and 
then the Government got wind of me and they dug 
me out and brought me to Rome, and so on. . . . 
Quite suddenly I got a chance to leave, and I took 
it. I know I have been inconsiderate, but please 
make allowances for me. I’ve had an awful time, 
one way and another.” 

“We have gathered from the newspapers that 
you went through a great deal,” replied the lady 
dryly. “Will you, on your side, please make allow¬ 
ances for anything which is not quite as you wish it, 
on the ground that we had no idea when we might 
expect to see you.” 

“Quite so, of course, of course. Don’t take any 
notice of Adney, he’s a fool about me; and since I 
had such a near squeak for it, he will hardly bear me 
out of his sight. I know I ought to have written, 
but my being able to start for England was so 


i 6 o His Second Venture 

sudden that I thought I should be here as soon as a 
letter. Then I found myself obliged to rest when 1 
got to Paris, instead of coming straight through, so 
after all it would have been worth while if I had 
sent word from Rome. But now tell me the news. 
Valery first, of course. Is she well?” 

“Ye-es. I think I may say she is fairly well now. 
She was rather worn out by the end of term, but 
soon picked up. However, I shall be thankful when 
it is over.” 

“Over? She will have finished this summer? 
Think of that! I have been away almost three 
years ... so long that my wife has grown into a 
woman.” He glanced up, a spark of mischief in his 
blue eyes. “You reproach me for negligence, be¬ 
cause you have heard of my doings only indirectly; 
but may I not lay something of the same kind to 
your charge ? I have lately been shown a reproduc¬ 
tion of Lyn’s fine portrait of Valery. But it was 
not sent me from this house.” 

“I hardly understand what you mean by saying 
that I reproach you, Colonel Caron; is it likely that 
I should so presume? But as regards the portrait 
—why should we think it would be likely to interest 
you?” 

He was keenly annoyed, both by words and tone. 
“Come, that’s nonsense. You must have known 
that it would be more interesting to me than any¬ 
thing else. But never mind that—the portrait itself 
•—I want to see it. Where is it hung?” 


A Conjugal Greeting 161 

“The painting? Oh, it is not here. It is at the 
Grange.” 

Her undeviating frigidity and unspoken censure 
maddened him. “The Grange? Grendon Grange? 
Why is it there?” he asked, with a curious feeling of 
inner disturbance. 

“Why not?” retorted Miss Kirby, unmoved. 

“Surely this is the place for it?” 

“Mr. Eldrid gave it to Mrs. Caron. He brought 
it up north when the exhibition closed last autumn, 
and it is hung in her dining-room.” 

He tried to disguise his mortification. “Well, 
I’m disappointed, but I hope to see the original 
shortly. And now, what of the children?” 

“The news is, I think, satisfactory of all three. 
Lance is not high up in his form, but he is so good 
at games that his reports are always lenient—too 
much so, I sometimes fancy. Aster likes Roedean, 
though I am not very sure of its being the best 
atmosphere for her. Humphrey only went to Lay- 
tondene last autumn, and seems quite happy there. 
His being brother to the captain of the eleven en¬ 
sured his welcome.” 

“They are all away at the moment?” 

“Yes. Easter falls awkwardly this year. They 
are all due home towards the end of the week.” 

“Perhaps that’s a good thing. I shall have a few 
days in which to make friends with my wife.” 

His cheery words fell into a depth of totally un¬ 
responsive silence. Miss Kirby made no attempt to 
reply. 


162 His Second Venture 

A slightly uncomfortable pause was broken by the 
sound of voices and of horses’ feet. Round the bend 
of the drive appeared a party of half a dozen riders, 
in front of whom rode Valery, Hugh Hatherlegh on 
her right, Lyndsay on her left. The day’s ride had 
brought the clear flush of exercise to the cheeks 
which had been too pale when she came down from 
Oxford, and she was talking with animation. 

Caron sprang to his feet, and went to the window, 
standing behind the curtain, where he was not visible 
to the arriving party. ' He felt positively sick with 
excitement as he saw the beauty, the ease, the dig¬ 
nity of the girl on the chestnut filly. He made an 
imperative gesture to Miss Kirby, who was trying 
to escape, not to leave the room. When the gay 
and vociferous group had dismounted, had entered 
the house, and their voices and laughter were muted 
by the closing upon them of the drawing-room door, 
he turned a face of extraordinary pallor to the lady, 
and said hurriedly: 

“Don’t let her know—don’t say anything of me 
until they have gone. I must see her alone first.” 

“Yes,” replied Miss Kirby, with an air of infinite 
relief, “I am glad you see it. I know she will insist 
upon that.” 

His heart sank horribly. Without a word Kirdles 
had conveyed to him most definitely the fact that 
he must not look to be received with open arms. 
What a cad he had been! How unutterably foolish 
into the bargain! How could such a girl as this 
fail to resent such usage as had been hers at the 


A Conjugal Greeting 163 

hands of the man who should show her most con¬ 
sideration? 

Well—he was quite prepared for abasement. 
She should have as many and as fervent apologies 
as she demanded. They should be punctuated with 
kisses, sealed with the contents of some velvet-lined 
cases from the Rue de Rivoli. He held all the 
cards. He was her husband. He could afford to 
laugh at old Kirby’s stiffness. 

“If you would excuse me now, I ought to go and 
pour out tea for them,” she was saying. “If I delay 
longer, she will be asking where I am-” 

“Oh, go—go by all means! I’ll get upstairs 
without being seen, and make myself presentable.” 

A couple of hours later, impetuous feet hurried 
along the corridor, the door of his bedroom was 
flung open, and Lyndsay rushed in, bidding him 
welcome. 

“Sorry I was out, and so on, but you gave us no 
chance, did you? Come, you look better than I 
feared. We were prepared to see you brought 
back on a shutter, as it seemed you were still too ill 
to write. However, you got away with it out there, 
didn’t you, all right! Hearty congrats., old chap. 
I hear it’s to be a Baronetcy!” 

“I told ’em I wouldn’t take a Knighthood,” said 
Caron with a grave smile. “Lance to think of, you 
know.” 

“Oh, then, you did think of us, on and off? We 
were inclined to suppose that you must be suffering 



164 His Second Venture 

from loss of memory, as we heard nothing,” chaffed 
Lyn. 

Caron, who had been gazing into the fire, turned 
round abruptly. “Lyn, don’t rub it in! Old Kirby 
has been making me feel like a kicked hound; but 
you know the worst of me, and you can perhaps 
make a guess at what my state of mind has been. 
... As you know, I never expected to come back 
at all; and when I found myself still alive, it took 
a long time to string myself up to face the music. 
Then, in Rome, I met Albinia Feranti. She gave 
me—that!” He waved his hand to where the 
framed photo of Val stood on the table by his bed. 
“Judging by what I hear, Valery seems to have be¬ 
come all that I supposed she never could be.” 

Lyndsay started visibly. He flashed a quick 
glance from his brother-in-law to the portrait and 
back. There was pity in his eyes. 

“Oh, but that’s no go, Car,” he said with concern. 
“You don’t surely expect to be able to patch things 
up, do you?” 

“Patch things up? What do you mean?” 

“Between you and Val. Take my word for it— 
nothing doing.” 

Carfrae’s whole attitude stiffened into that of the 
British husband. “Valery is my wife,” he said. 

Lyndsay slowly shook his head. “Oh, no, she’s 
not. She promised to be, but she isn’t, you know 
. . . however, she is quite competent to speak for 
herself. She is waiting for you now, down in the 
smoking-room. Go and see her face to face—hear 


A Conjugal Greeting 165 

what she has to say. Only let me give you one hint. 
You left England because you didn’t want to have 
anything to do with her. You’d have given your 
back teeth to be free. Well—don’t be pig-headed 
now, and quarrel with your freedom just because it’s 
flung in your face.” 

Caron looked furious. “I don’t take such words, 
even from you. I have certain views, certain 

standards, as regards marriage-” he broke off 

in confusion, checked by the ironic gleam in Lyn’s 
eye. He was on the point of some unpardonable 
sneer, but he choked it back. Lyn’s air of honest 
sympathy restrained him. Without another word 
he walked to the door, opened it, and strode along 
the corridor and downstairs. 

The hero of Hal-i-Mor, the man of the moment, 
felt absurdly abject as he opened the door of the 
smoking-room and found himself in the presence of 
his wife. 

He was in his dinner-jacket. She also had 
changed, but not into evening-dress. She wore a 
knitted suit, powder-blue in colour, with a white silk 
jumper under the coat. 

His first thought was that she was more beautiful 
than the portrait. Certainly it had not flattered her. 
Her carriage was dignified, her air so composed that 
it might almost have been called majestic. There 
was something arresting in her stillness, and he 
felt that all the disadvantage was on his side as he 
came forward after carefully closing the door be¬ 
hind him. 



166 His Second Venture 

When he was near her he paused. He could not 
have told why, except that her eyes forbade closer 
approach. He held out both hands. 

“Well, Valery,”—his voice shook—“have you no 
welcome for me?” 

Still meeting his look steadily Valery lifted her 
right hand and touched his, as one does to an 
acquaintance with whom one has no wish to be on 
better terms. 

“How do you do?” she said. 

“I am pretty well, thanks, and hope soon to be 
as fit as ever I was,” he replied, held upon the spot 
where he stood as though she had fenced him off 
with barbed wire. “Valery—after all this time— 
are you not going to say you are glad to see me?” 

“No; for I am not glad to see you,” was her 
astounding reply, “except for the reason that your 
return puts an end to a period of waiting which has 
not been easy to bear.” 

He passed over the shock of her first words to 
seize upon what followed. 

“I know that—I know it cannot have been easy,” 
he caught her up quickly, “but it is over at last! 
I am here—I am at your feet. I want to tell you 
—to explain-” 

“I will ask you, if you will be so kind, to let me 
speak first,” said Valery, still with the same air of 
settled purpose and complete certainty. “You will 
perhaps allow that, after the way in which I have 
been used, I have some claim to speak first.” 

He put out his hand and gripped the mantel. 



A Conjugal Greeting 167 

“The way in which you have been used” he echoed. 
He paused, as if to let her words sink in. It was 
plain that he was wholly unprepared for her atti¬ 
tude. “Speak, by all means,” he said at last. It 
was evidently difficult for him to confine himself to 
those few words. 

She pointed to a small easy chair close to the 
fire. “Please sit down, I expect you are tired after 
your journey, and I would not enter into this ex¬ 
planation now were it not that I am pressed for 
time-” 

“Pressed for time? Oh, I see, you have to 
change-” 

“No. Not that; but I am leaving this house in 
an hour’s time.” 

He started violently. “What?” 

“You have stolen a march on me by coming back 
unexpectedly,” said Val. “Had you not done this, 
I could have spared you a scene which is, I suppose, 
painful to us both. But as you have surprised me 
here, I have things to say which must be said.” 

“And so have I, by Jove!” he cried out, stung 
to the quick. 

“You may leave it all unsaid, for it cannot affect 
me. Please sit down. Please.” 

Thus urged, he complied; but his wife remained 
standing. 

“I want you to understand quite definitely,” she 
said quietly, “that although I promised nearly three 
years ago to be your wife, I now decline to fulfil 
my promise. I do so upon the ground that my vows 




168 His Second Venture 

were made under a total misapprehension. When 
I married you, I was under the delusion that you 
loved me-” 

He broke in hurriedly. “Val—let me speak— 
indeed there were excuses for me.” 

“There were strong excuses for you,” she replied. 
“At least half the original misunderstanding was 
due to my own stupidity. Miss Kirby also was 
partly to blame. She had brought me up too young 
for my age. I was a simple soul, content with very 
simple pleasures. I never saw any men, and I 
developed absurdly late. Miss Kirby owns it now. 
She knows that if I had been a normal girl of nine¬ 
teen, I should not for a moment have supposed 
that my mother could be right when she told me 
that you had fallen in love with me. I know that I, 
to put it bluntly, threw myself at your head, and that 
it must have been difficult for you to know what 
to do-” 

“But surely, Val, if you admit all this-” 

“I do admit it. You were in a fix, and there 
were two courses open to you. Either you could 
cut the knot by telling me the truth, which would 
have hurt me sorely at the time, but would have 
been a temporary sorrow; or you could shoulder 
the consequences of your mistake—for I still hold 

that the situation was in part your own fault-” 

“I admit that—freely—but-” 

“But you chose neither of these courses, which 
would, though difficult, have been alike honourable. 
You chose the dishonourable third course, of offering 







A Conjugal Greeting 169 

the shadow and cheating me of the substance. You 
lied to me, and left me to find out that you had 
done so, partly from my mother’s unguarded words 
on my dreadful wedding day, and partly from the 
newspapers. You had to choose between accepting 
me and rejecting me. You had courage for neither. 
What you gave with one hand you took away with 
the other, leaving me to fare as I could, to make the 
best of an intolerable state of things. When you had 
been gone three months I discovered—through the 
newspapers—that you had lied when you gave me 
to understand that duty called you away from me. 
And since you came out of hospital you have left 
me to all the ignominy of having everyone know 
more of your doings than your own family knows— 
of being repeatedly asked when you were coming 
home and being unable to reply; of knowing that all 
the other surviving members of your band were 
home months ago; of seeing the Press and the coun¬ 
try humming with the record of what you have 
done, while any, even the most formal account of it, 
was withheld from your wife.” 

What she said seemed to leave him bereft of 
speech. Leaning forward in his chair he propped 
his elbows on his knees and dropped his forehead 
in his hands. After a pause, of which he made no 
use, she went on. 

“That is my indictment. I think you—even you 
—must see how abhorrent any idea of a reconcilia¬ 
tion between us must be to me, Now hear my ac¬ 
count of myself. From the day we parted I have 


170 His Second Venture 

never used one penny of your money. I found that 
my father had in his will left me a thousand pounds, 
to be paid over on my marriage. I had also the 
Grange and its income. Out of this money I have 
paid my university fees, and the upkeep of the 
Grange, and I have also paid Miss Kirby for my 
board during the weeks—there have not been many 
—which I have spent in this house. I have used 
my time in qualifying to earn my own living and 
by the end of this summer I shall be ready to do so. 
I thank God humbly for the financial independence 
which enables me to say to you that I refuse alto¬ 
gether to acknowledge, as binding upon me, vows 
which should never have been made. As you doubt¬ 
less know, my attitude of complete repudiation 
leaves you free to have our marriage annulled. I 
think you will agree that in these circumstances it 
would be highly unfitting for me to pass even one 
night under the same roof with you; so I will bid 
you good-bye. Miss Kirby will stay with you until 
the end of the school holidays, after which she will 
come to the Grange to keep house for me.” 

He raised his head from his hands, which he 
wrung together while he looked her fixedly in the 
face. Then he rose to his feet, put his hands behind 
him and confronted her. 

“Well,” said he hesitatingly, “I came to this inter¬ 
view prepared to humble myself pretty thoroughly. 
I knew that I had behaved badly and that I needed 
forgiveness. The thorough nature of your revenge, 
however, almost makes me feel as if you had sue- 


A Conjugal Greeting 171 

ceeded in getting all of your own back. If I have 
humiliated you, as you say, all that you have suffered 
will be like nothing at all in face of my humiliation 
if you carry out your threat and leave me.” 

“Please do not speak of threats. I took my 
decision more than two and a half years ago. It 
was my intention never to see you again. Had you 
given notice of your coming, you would not have 
found me here. I never come but in the Christmas 
and Easter vacations, and then only because I can¬ 
not live at the Grange quite alone. Had you ever 
manifested the smallest interest in me or my plans, 
I would have prepared you for this. I would have 
told you by letter all that I have now been forced 
to tell you face to face. I cannot see how I am 
humiliating you, except perhaps in your own eyes. 
In these cases it is always the woman upon whom 
any humiliation falls. I shall have that to face, 
with the rest; but I would accept even that sooner 
than stay with you.” 

“Thank you. Perhaps you have not considered 
-” he broke off bitterly. “I see I have only my¬ 
self to blame. If I had explained-” 

“Explained? What was there to explain?” 

“Val, you perhaps—I should say most probably 
—do not in the least realise the difference between 
yourself as you are now and the girl to whom I 
imagined myself married. The Valery whom I left 
behind would have taken no interest in my 
affairs-” 

“Would she not? You little know-” 





172 His Second Venture 

“I expect I misjudged you. You were so behind¬ 
hand as far as sex was concerned that I imagined 
the whole of you was as half-baked as your senti¬ 
mentality. I see how egregiously wrong I was. . . . 
You have succeeded in setting my misdeeds before 
me in a way which may be salutary though it is 
certainly painful; but in one respect you are mis¬ 
taken. You speak as though you were certain of 
my acquiescence in your desertion of me. That is 
not so. Before we part, I ask to be allowed to 
make my position clear, as you have made yours.” 

She made a slight gesture of assent. She was 
still on her feet, erect and defiant, but while he spoke 
his last words she had grown very pale, and a slight 
shudder ran through her. Her mien had changed 
from that of one easily mistress of herself to that of 
one summoning all her powers of self-control. For 
the force of the blow she had dealt him was pain¬ 
fully obvious. Thin as he looked, so that his dinner- 
jacket hung loosely on his shoulders, darkened 
though his fair skin still was by the pitiless equato¬ 
rial sunshine, he yet preserved those distinguished 
good looks which would be his to the end of life. 
His blue eyes looked bluer than ever, set in the 
tanned face; and since they were set under more 
hollow brows they had an appeal which in old days 
Was not discernible. Had he known it, he was a 
more formidable menace to her resolution as he sat 
there silent, choosing his line of argument, than he 
was when at last he spoke. 

“I married you because I felt that to leave you 
on your mother’s hands would be even more cruel 


A Conjugal Greeting 173 

than to take you away from her; for I could give 
you my position though I could not, then, give you 
my heart. I was badly cornered. I was not ready 
to face the consequences of the thing that had hap¬ 
pened to me. But I thought it very probable that I 
never should be called upon to face them. It seemed 
to me almost certain that I should not come back at 
all; that, even if I succeeded in finding Hal-i-Mor, I 
should leave my bones in the sand. It was better 
in that case, for you to be my widow—with a posi¬ 
tion, some money, and, above all things, your own 
mistress—than to be left with your mother, who 
would have thrown you off in order to make her 
marriage with Jerrold. It was a bad business, but I 
gambled on the unlikelihood of my return; and the 
number has turned up, after all. I have come back; 
and during my absence you have grown from a rather 
awkward, shy girl into a beautiful and charming 
woman. I can speak to you as to one who under¬ 
stands; and I ask you, humbly but very urgently, 
not to leave me. I am sincerely sorry for having 
deceived you; and still more sorry for my recent 
neglect, the importance of which I do not think I 
realised until you pointed it out to me. Stay here 
on your own terms, but stay—give me a chance . . . 
a chance to show you-” 

To his own consternation his voice faltered. 

“You are asking me,” she said in low, hurried 
tones, “you have the assurance to ask me to go on 
with this life of dry husks—to keep up this empty 
pretence which I have endured like a prisoner’s 
chains for nearly three years-” 




174 His Second Venture 

“No! I am asking you only to give me a chance 
—to let me show you something of myself; to— 

to face the possibility-” 

“There is no possibility,” she broke in, “and you 
know in your heart that there is none. You care 
no more for me than you do for the labourers on 
your estate—less, indeed, for if you neglect them 
they murmur; and I—until to-day I have not mur¬ 
mured. You suggest that I face a certain possibility. 
I suggest that you face the other side, not merely 
the possibility but the extreme probability—the all 
but certainty—that nothing could come of your 
plan . . . and by that time it would be too late. 
You would have chained me to my oar for ever. 
No, Colonel Caron. There is but one course for 
you and me, and that is to say good-bye at once, and 
go out of each other’s lives without ill-feeling.” 

He rose from his chair and stood beside her on 
the hearth. Gripping the mantel with one hand, he 
stooped his tall head over her. 

“That is your final answer? Valery—two years 

ago, you loved me. You adored me-” 

“No! I adored love.” She broke in vehemently. 
“Of you, I know nothing at all. I thought you were 
love. That has been my only crime. I mistook 

good-humoured contempt for love-” 

“And now you no longer feel that you could keep 
the vows you made?” 

“As I told you at the beginning of this dreadful 
talk, I have not the slightest intention of keeping 
them. You can free yourself as soon as you like. 
To put it in the plainest way—I refuse to have 





A Conjugal Greeting 175 

anything to do with you. And now,” she went on, 
as a gong rumbled in the hall, “we must break off 
this futile discussion. I have to get to Peterborough 
to-night, and I want to do it in three hours-” 

“Peterborough? There’s no train?” 

“Of course not. I’m going in my car.” 

“Alone ?” he was so surprised that he hardly knew 
what he said. 

“Oh no. My Oxford friend, Madge Burton, who 
roomed with me, is staying here, and she will go 
with me. Lyndsay wanted to, but I told him he 
must stay with you.” 

“It would be better for me and Adney to take the 
next train back to town.” 

“Of course not! That is out of the question. 
You are tired and not yet strong. Besides, this is 
your home,—you must stay here. Madge and I 
will enjoy the night run. We have done it before.” 

“True. I know from my own experience how 
well you drive in the dark,” he murmured; and as 
he spoke all in a moment the memory of that spring 
night came back to him. He smelt the fragrance of 
the primrose and bluebell-studded lanes and saw the 
over-arching mystery of stars, while a girl drove 
swiftly between narrow limits, the light of her 
lamps dancing on the hedge-rows. 

“Val!” he cried urgently, and caught her hands. 
“Oh, Val, for pity’s sake-” 

He felt her stiffen and withdraw. “Good-bye, 
Colonel Caron,” said she; and in a moment she was 
gone. 




CHAPTER XIX 


FACING THE MUSIC 

H ERE, old man, we’re still waiting dinner for 
you,” said Lyndsay, coming in concernedly, 
half an hour later. 

Caron roused himself from his trance-like torpor. 
“Has she gone?” he asked. 

“Val? Yes, Madge and she had some food 
earlier, and they’re off. Got to make Peterborough, 
and they’ll have a coldish drive. Not that that 
matters to them, the rascals; and it’s a clear, dry 
night. Good going.” 

“Who is in the dining-room besides yourself?” 
“Only Kirdles. Pull yourself together and come 
in.” 

He held out his hands to help Caron to his feet, 
but was ignored. 

“Cheerio, old son,” he adjured him. “You’ll be 
no end bucked to-morrow when you think that the 
knot’s cut. I dare say Val made you feel a bit as 
if she’d been pouring boiling lead down on you 
through the machicolations; but you’ll soon get over 
that. She’s a plucky little girl, and really, you 
know, the only thing to do was to take the bull by 
the horns.” 

“She has done her work very thoroughly, Lyn. 
176 


Facing the Music 177 

Very thoroughly indeed. She’s broken me, with a 
vengeance.” 

“Broken you? How do you make that out?” 

“Try to realise my position. I have, of course, 
been aware that the moment I set foot in England, 
it would mean three months at least during which 
I should never be out of the limelight. I stayed 
abroad with that idea at the back of my mind; 
that I must not come back until I was ready to stand 
it all.” He gave a bitter little laugh. “I have ac¬ 
cepted a command to bring my wife to Buckingham 
Palace. I have accepted an offer from Lady 
Dagnall to present her at Court. I actually—in 
my hotel yesterday—allowed a pressman to photo¬ 
graph that picture of her for his paper. You will 
divine that if I, the man of the moment, were to 
bring a suit for nullity, the entire gutter Press 
would leap upon it. She would be pursued to 
Grendon—snapshotted—her name bandied about 
in every dirty little rag in the country. Did you 
think of all that, I ask you, when you advised her 
to shake off the dust of her feet against me?” 

Lyn looked really startled. 

“I—no, of course I never considered all that for 
a moment. Not that it is true to say I advised 
her. She has taken other advice—legal-” 

“The deuce she has!” 

“Yes. Of course they told her that the thing 
must come from you, since it is she who is the 
deserter—she who declines to carry out her con¬ 
tract.” 



178 His Second Venture 

“Certainly it is she. I came home prepared to 

lay my laurels, such as they are, at her feet-” 

“I’m awfully sorry for that,” said Lyn dejectedly. 
“Of course, I thought, as she thought, and Miss 
Kirby thought, that you’d be only too pleased that 
she should shoulder the responsibility of the inevita¬ 
ble rupture. We pictured you as heaving a sigh 
of relief; except that, of course, it’s rough on you 
to lose Kirdles; but you couldn’t expect her to stay 
with you and let her ewe lamb, whom you had 
deserted, live alone—could you?” 

“May I remind you, Lyn, that you aided and 
abetted me in my desertion of my bride?” 

“Touche,” replied Lyn at once. “I regret it in 
some ways, though latterly I have been thinking 
that it was the best thing that could have happened 
—the only way of undoing the mistake; all the 
same, it nearly killed her, you know.” 

“Nearly killed her? What are you talking 
about?” 

Lyn looked doubtfully at him. “I very nearly 
wrote to you at the time, only I was afraid of 

making things worse-” 

“Tell me now, for pity’s sake-” 

Lyn accordingly proceeded to tell him—hesitat¬ 
ingly at first, but in view of the absorbed interest 
of the listener, with increasing fluency—the story 
of this modern Ariadne in Naxos; how very nearly 
Valery had cut her marriage knot by death, and 
how valiantly she had afterwards taken up the bur¬ 
den of her wrecked life and fed her mind to com- 





Facing the Music 179 

pensate her starved heart. “I tell you,” he said, 
“I soon got to feel that there was nothing I wouldn’t 
do for her, and we have grown to be real friends, 
almost as if I was her brother. But I could never 
get her to speak of you—even to mention your 
name, except in the most formal way, until a few 
weeks ago, when it was a question of where to spend 
Easter. She wrote to me then and said that she 
thought she ought to warn me that she had no in¬ 
tention of holding to the present position, and that 
her lawyer had told her that in that case she must 
be careful not to remain in the same house with you. 
She did not want to come here at all this vac., but 
I over-persuaded her, because of the Point-to-Point 
races. She is so keen upon horses and enjoyed it 
so much last year. We argued that you would 
certainly give us at least a week’s notice if you were 
returning, and as she had her car here, that left 
plenty of time for her to clear out. I don’t think 
she has ever for a moment considered the publicity. 
They don’t make much in the papers over nullity 
suits, unless they have to do with celebrities.” 

“Well,” said Caron, “she has been badly used. 
I own up to that. But she’s got her revenge all 
right. I’m broken.” 

Lyn thrust his hands deep in his pockets and 
knit his brows. “Isn’t that exaggeration? Public 
opinion has changed a good deal of late years, you 
know. It always seems to me that everybody who 
is much before the public turns out to have some 
complication in their domestic relations. If you’ve 


180 His Second Venture 

dared the desert and discovered a city, nobody minds 
if you beat your wife.” 

“The smart set may not; probably they don’t. 
They live in glass-houses,” replied Caron. “But 
the great heart of the people still turns against the 
man who deserted his young wife—or girl-wife, I 
believe that’s the Press term—on her wedding-day. 
All that would inevitably be made public, and I— 
they’ve approached me already about standing for 
the Marterstead division at the forthcoming by- 
election, which is to be in June. If all this comes 
out, I must decline to stand. I shouldn’t have a 
dog’s chance.” 

Lyn’s face had grown very long. “Did you put 
all this to Val?” he asked after a pause. 

Caron, who had risen to his feet and was staring 
into the fire, turned to him with a sound of derision. 

“What! Beg her to stay here against her will, 
because her presence suited my convenience? So 
likely, isn’t it?” 

“I wouldn’t mind betting that she has never seen 
it from this angle at all.” 

“Probably not. My career, my future, is nothing 
to her. She has turned me down, and that’s the 
end of it. I wish to God I had never come out of 
that beastly hospital at Tahoura.” 

Lyn flung himself into a chair, frowning with 
concentration. A slight diversion was effected by 
the entrance of the parlour-maid and Adney, bear¬ 
ing the colonel’s dinner on a tray. 

“Miss Kirby thought that she had better send 


Facing the Music 181 

you in something to eat, as you don’t feel equal to 
coming into the dining-room, sir,” said Adney. 
“I’ve made bold to open a bottle of champagne, for 
I think you’re very tired; but you must try and eat 
something.” 

His wistful voice and manner drew an unwilling 
smile from Caron. “All right. Thanks. The 
champagne was excess of zeal, but I dare say Mr. 
Eldrid will help me with it,” he said. 

The clear soup looked very tempting, and he was 
the better for it. Lyn felt so sorry for him that he 
sat beside him and diverted his attention for awhile 
by chattering about the day’s racing. By dint of 
putting various carefully framed questions, he also 
drew from him a little information concerning his 
own recent proceedings; and thus succeeded in be¬ 
guiling him into eating something which might be 
called a meal. 

Adney, who was waiting on his master, cast grate¬ 
ful glances at Lyndsay; and presently, when the 
young man was called up on the telephone and had 
to leave the room, the servant followed him, waited 
until he had finished speaking, and then waylaid him. 

“Forgive me, sir, Gawd knows I don’t want to 
presume, but he’s more to me than my own skin, 
by a long chalk. Tell me, is something wrong be¬ 
tween him and Mrs. Caron?” 

Lyndsay hesitated. “There’s a hitch somewhere, 
Adney,” replied he after awhile, “but it’s not for 
discussion among yourselves, you know.” 

Adney’s growl of scorn was ferocious. “See me 


182 His Second Venture 

giving him away to a lot of fatheads, don’t you?” 
he spat out contemptuously. “But what is it—can’t 
you do anything?” 

“I don’t know. I think I’ll have a try,” replied 
Lyn thoughtfully, “but it may not come to any¬ 
thing after all, so what you have to do is to keep 
your tongue between your teeth, pretend to him 
that everything’s all right, keep him going, see? 
By any means in your power. If you’ve got any 
bromide, and could administer it without his know¬ 
ing he’s taking it, give it, and let him have a long 
night’s rest.” 

“Right you are, sir. If you knew what he’s come 
through you’d wonder to see him walking about 
and keeping his end up at all. I tell you straight, 
his bones was through his skin, where they’d 
manacled him, and he was a mass of sores—you’d 
ought to see the scars on him.” 

“Jove! Poor lad!” 

“And them dirty Dagoes are after him now, 
that’s more. Because he routed up that perishin’ 
city of theirs where they’d got Lord knows what 
filth and horrors hidden away. He wants me to 
go down to Kent on my holiday, but I’m not going, 
no, not even if he fires me, so I tell you straight! 
He was follered, in Rome, and the beast got as 
far as the frontier, but luckily they turned him 
back there, him not knowing he had to get a pass¬ 
port into France. But that won’t be their only 
attempt, not by a long chalk, and, of course, every 
word he says and everything he does and will do 


Facing the Music 183 

next week will be in the papers for their information 
—oh, I tell you it’s not all beer and skittles, going 
grubbing into them Dago middens.” 

Lyndsay felt a warm impulse of friendship for 
this man. 

By questioning, he elicited a flood of information 
as to the unquestioned heroism of Carfrae’s exploits. 

“I did think he’d come home to a bit of peace— 
he was that taken up with her photo in Rome,” 
sighed Adney. “Amused me to see him buy fine 
handkerchiefs and new boots and shoes and so on 
in Paris—got so particular all of a sudden, he did, 
fussing with his shirts and things, nothing ’ud please 
him. If she’s biffed him he’ll take it hard; he will 
that; and if ever a man was faithful . . . well, sir, 
you know what some are, when they’re out and 
away from civilisation like that; but him—not a 
skirt from start to finish! What more can she want, 
I ask you?” 


CHAPTER XX 


LYNDSAY WAVERS 

L YNDSAY walked very gravely back into the 
smoking-room where Carfrae still sat, leaning 
forward, elbow on knee, chin propped on hand, gaz¬ 
ing into the fire. 

The yellow mop of the painter was all standing 
on end as it usually did when anything ruffled his 
sunny temperament. He was completely upset by 
the manner in which the husband had taken the 
news. Some surprise he had expected, some offence 
perhaps, but he had secretly felt sure that relief 
would have been the sensation which emerged finally 
on the top. 

Viewing the situation from Carfrae’s standpoint, 
he could see that the blow was a far heavier one 
than he had foreseen, and its results more far- 
reaching. What he wanted to know was, whether 
this was all; whether the public humiliation was the 
extent of Car’s trouble. Sitting down, he lit his dirty 
disreputable old pipe, locked his hands round his 
knees and silently smoked awhile. Presently he said: 

“I think perhaps that Valery ought to have your 
side of the question laid before her.” 

Carfrae merely shook his head without replying. 
“If she thought—if she knew—that she was spoil- 
184 


Lindsay Wavers 185 

ing your prospects—doing you public damage—she 
might reconsider the position.” 

“I should not wish it.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“I mean that I can’t add anything to the suffering 
which I find I have already caused her. As she says 
that nothing would induce her to—to be my wife in 
reality—well! That’s that, isn’t it?” 

A long pause. “How does she strike you, Car? 
What do you think of her?” asked Lyn at last. 

“Think of her? Why, she’s wonderful. She is 
like the woman one has sometimes dreamed of and 
never met. Is she really all that she seems?” 

“Oh, a good deal more. I should say her only 
fault—almost her only fault—is that she’s a bit 
hard; and that’s not to be wondered at. She had 
to drink a bitter cup, poor kid. First her mother, 
whom she idolised, let her down; and then you. 
She’s clever, she’s attractive, and in spite of every¬ 
thing she’s healthy-minded too; but hard. . . . 
No use to appeal to her emotions; certainly not 
where you are concerned. She’s wrapped up in 
Lance, though. I hope you won’t forbid him to see 
her.” 

Carfrae laughed contemptuously. “Much differ¬ 
ence my forbidding or permitting would make! I 
don’t know if I’m on my head or my heels. Has a 
husband no authority at all in these days? Is mar¬ 
riage nothing but an agreement which either can 
break at pleasure? By Jove!” he broke out with a 
sudden fury which was surprising, “it makes one 


186 His Second Venture 

wish it were a hundred years ago! I’d teach her 
her duty!” 

Lyn considered him out of the corner of his eye. 
“Would you whip her?” he asked. 

“God knows! I’d break her somehow!” 

“But, Car, let me understand. You are not seri¬ 
ously telling me that if it were in your power you’d 
take her against her will? Consider, now. You 
don’t care a snap about her really. You want to 
have her about to show to people—but in a few 
months’ time—when you are safely in Parliament, 
when your lionising is over, and you want to settle 
down, what would you do with her?” 

“How do you know I don’t care for her?” 

“Because you can’t. You almost loathed her 
when you married her, and since that you haven’t 
seen her.” 

“Well, perhaps that’s why-” 

“You mean that, simply because she won’t have 
anything to say to you, you want to break her re¬ 
sistance? Well, but afterwards? When you had 
done that—if you could do it, which I doubt—what 
then?” 

“Oh, stop it, Lyn, confound you!” 

“I only want to understand the position,” replied 
Lyn meekly. 

“I imagine,” presently remarked Caron, “that 
there is in me something which prevents any woman 
from giving me her devotion. Certainly Blanche 
never did; but you know—absurdly, I had been 
banking upon Valery! I thought she would fall into 



Lindsay Wavers 187 

my arms, and that I—well, that I should be jolly 
glad to have her there.” 

Lyn puffed silently. Then: “I’ll talk to Kirdles, 
and tell her to write and put the public side of this 
thing before Valery.” 

“No use to do that. I have to give my answer to 
the association on Thursday. No, Lyn, I’m broke. 
I’ll stay here to-night because it’s late, but to¬ 
morrow Adney and I must pack up and clear out. 
I’ll go back to the Riviera—health’s quite a good ex¬ 
cuse; and cancel all engagements.” He laughed 
bitterly. “And I was looking forward to a summer 
at home ... A summer at home . . . for 
once in my life!” 

“I should like you to promise me,” said Lyn, 
“that you’ll stay here until Thursday morning.” 

“What’s the good of that?” 

“I think the case ought to be laid before Valery 
more fully than it seems to have been by you.” 

“That will do no good; all the same, I think it 
would perhaps be wiser to stay here till Thursday— 
it will look more as if I had come home, intending 
to stay, and had to flee on account of the diabolical 
weather or the low temperature, or something. By 
the way, there’s still a chance for her to be free 
without any suits being brought. The Halis, as they 
call themselves, didn’t get me in Chugga, but they 
have warned me that they mean to. They told me 
that my being in Europe wouldn’t stop ’em; and 
they did set a merchant to follow me about in 
Rome.” 


188 His Second Venture 

“But, Car, this sounds to me very rum. Adney 
told me something of it. But savages like that—a 
desert tribe—they haven’t the money nor the ability 
to track you to England.” 

“Oh, haven’t they? Much you know about it. 
That’s one thing about going on a job like mine— 
it does teach you. We think we know such a lot, 
but we are fools—children—to the men who have 
owned Hal-i-Mor ever since the Romans deserted it: 
let alone the fact that they’re hand and glove with 
Germany.” 

“That’s true, then?” 

“Very true. The Hun archaeologists have been 
after Hal-i-Mor for years.” 

“But the French didn’t have this kind of trouble 
over Timgad?” 

“Naturally not. Timgad is in French territory, 
not the sacred property of a desert people who look 
upon it as miraculous. The Halis sincerely believe 
that Hal-i-Mor was built by the gods when they 
dwelt among men; and we sent an armed expedition 
to hunt for it! No wonder they laid hands on us. 
You see, they had the lot of us shut up there, and I 
didn’t see how any help was going to reach us in 
time. The only way I could devise to save our skins 
was to pretend to magic powers! I resorted to the 
old dodge, used in ‘King Solomon’s Mines’—the 
eclipse. It just chanced that there was quite a good 
one, though we had to wait nearly nine months for 
it. I prophesied the invasion of their country by a 
force a hundred times larger than their own army, 


Lindsay Wavers 189 

and said that it would be heralded by darkness. 
When the first part of my rede came true, they 
bundled us out like Pharaoh of old. And now they 
think I can control the powers of heaven, and that 
it isn’t healthy for them to have me alive. I am 
going to watch out, and I went yesterday to Scotland 
Yard, to tell them to be very sharp over passports 
and landing permits. However, perhaps I had bet¬ 
ter relax precautions, and contrive not too obviously 
to let them get me. I think I’d rather do that, and 
die for my country in a blaze of glory, than see 
myself bringing a suit for nullity—which, by the 
way, my girl-wife talks about as calmly as a sum¬ 
mons for non-payment of rent.” 

“Valery’s modern. You can’t put the clock 
back.” 

“Modern, indeed! And I’m ancient, not to say 
primitive. Lord! How ancient I feel! A Stone 
Age man! I should like to take her and crush her, 
and show her who was master!” 

“Then”—hesitatingly—“she wouldn’t be safe 
here? I mean, suppose, for the sake of argument, 
that she consented to come back and stay in the 
house in order to keep up appearances? You 
couldn’t promise—couldn’t guarantee to leave her 
in peace-” 

“Look here, Lyndsay, drop it!” shouted Carfrae, 
his eyes afire. “Drop it, can’t you? Mayn’t I rave 
a little? Do you expect me to be chucked as I’ve 
been chucked to-day—kicked as I’ve been kicked 
to-day—and take it without a word? . . * But 



190 His Second Venture 

I’m not a cad, although she thinks so, and although 
you apparently think so too ! No—not a word! I 
feel as if I should choke with all the things I want 
to say, and can’t say! You’ve been disloyal—you’ve 
rounded on me—you are on her side, and Kirby’s 
on her side, and, I suppose, I shall find that all my 

three children are on her side too-” 

“But for pity’s sake, Carfrae, what’s the trouble? 
You have only got what you’ve asked for! You 
longed to shake off Valery—it was your one desire 
—what do you suppose she has been thinking, all 
this time that you’ve been dancing about Italy, with¬ 
out even the courtesy to tell her where you were? 
You must have done that on purpose to show her 
that she was less than nothing to you; and now, 
simply because you find that she agrees with you, you 

fling yourself into a rage like this-” he broke off, 

horrified at the pallor of Caron’s face, the blue fury 
of his eyes, the drawn back lips and set jaws. “For¬ 
give me,” he stammered. “I know it must have 
been pretty awful for you, being told off by her. I 
tell you, I should just hate to incur her contempt. 
Look here, forget it. Go to bed and have a 
thorough good rest. I’m going to talk to Kirby; 
she has any amount of sense.” 




CHAPTER XXI 


VALERY HESITATES 

I N the warm wet woods the fragrance of prim¬ 
roses floated to heaven like incense. The spaces 
wherein las autumn undergrowth had been cut 
down were starred with clusters of pale bloom. 
Down in the rocky bed of the river, moving warily 
along a ledge, Val was gathering handfuls of them, 
while Madge Burton, sketching-block on knee, sat 
halfway up the steep bank, busily recording an im¬ 
pression of “the primrose by the river’s brim.” 

The east wind had ceased and a warm zephyr 
from the south breathed over the enchanted earth, 
the sun was beginning to decline towards the west, 
and the light to take on colour as the shadows 
lengthened. 

“It strikes me,” came Val’s clear voice, “that we 
had better be thinking of getting home to tea.” 

“No good, Val. I am not going to stir for the 
next twenty minutes, so make up your mind to it. 
This is really coming—one of my lucky days—and 
they’re not so plentiful that I can afford to ignore 
them.” 

Val lightly scrambled up to the level whereat 
Madge was seated, and gazed at the bold and vivid 
bit of colour. 


192 His Second Venture 

“You’re right. It’s good,” said she, as one whose 
opinion makes a thing certain. “No green could 
scream too loudly to be like those lime buds; and 
you’ve got the tone of the rocks—they are really 
wet; and I can see through the water; it’s trans¬ 
parent. You’re coming on, my dear. But I knew 
Grendon would inspire you. Not a bad old spot, 
is it?” 

“Lucky woman! To own a bit of earth of your 
very own! I wish I were ever likely to do so.” 

“Yes,” said Val thoughtfully, “in some ways, I 
suppose, I have been fortunate. For instance, sup¬ 
pose that mother had taken a fancy to the Grange 
and had wanted to live in it. What a relief, by the 
by, that she and Sir Otho are not expected back here 
for ages. Going to town when they get back from 
Sicily.” 

“Yes,” replied Madge, who was in her friend’s 
confidence, “that’s another big piece of luck for you. 
Lady Jerrold would certainly have wanted to have a 
finger in the pie when you suddenly arrived here on 
the very day after your husband’s return.” 

Val laughed softly. 

“I did wipe the floor with him,” she remarked, 
speaking with a primrose in her charming mouth, 
held by the stalk. “Isn’t it odd how a man, the 
moment he finds he can’t have a thing, immediately 
begins to want it? I must own I was surprised at 
the way he took it. I expected him to be hardly 
able to throw a decent veil over his delight; but, 
on the contrary, he was badly rattled. However, 


Valery Hesitates 193 

by this time he will have got over that, and be 
thanking me on his knees for taking the initiative.” 

“I wish I had seen him,” said Madge regretfully. 
“Of course, he is the kind of man I always admire— 
sort of Sir Richard Burton fellow. How did he 
look?” 

“He looked ill. There is no doubt he really has 
been very bad. I had been wondering if there was 
any truth at all in it, or whether his illness was 
faked in order to keep himself away from me; but 
he has manifestly been through a great deal since I 
saw him last. In the days of my calf-love, he was 
one of those men who look as if they came out of a 
box—always erect, trim, clean, well, never an eye¬ 
lash out of place. His hair seemed as if it could 
never change, a dull, tarnished gold with a kink in it, 
which would show on the temples, when he had 
been a week away from the haircutter. Now there 
is a little frost on it, but he isn’t a bit bald. He is 
tremendously tanned—I wonder if it will ever dis¬ 
appear? And he is thin and his cheeks are sunken, 
and his eyesockets deeper than they were.” 

“He sounds very fascinating to me.” 

“Yes. I have that much justification. When he 
came into the room I was quite keen to know 
whether he was as handsome as I had thought him 
in the throes of my first green pash; and I came to 
the conclusion that he was the kind of man that a 
girl might quite easily make herself a fool over.” 

“And now he’s a hero into the bargain.” 

“No man is a hero to the woman he deserts.” 


194 His Second Venture 

“I don’t agree; it only makes some women cling 
the more.” 

“Perhaps he expected me to be like that. Well, 
if so, he got the surprise of his life.” 

“Poor fellow!” 

“He’s not to be pitied. By this time I expect 
he’s dancing a jig with pleasure. Oh! Talking of 
jigs reminds me! You and I were both engaged to 
go and have tea with the Spanish ladies at the 
Dairy Lodge this afternoon! I forgot all about it! 
I do wonder if Kirdles will remember to send them 
word! They will just have got their kettle boiling 
and be sitting up in their best clothes, waiting for 
us.” 

“Funny old things! I did want to go and air my 
rudimentary Spanish,” avowed Madge with a touch 
of regret. “What a nuisance husbands are!” 

“Oh, not if you understand how to make ’em 
keep their distance,” boasted Val lazily. “Fancy 
those old Miss La Placis liking to live in that funny 
little house, right in the country!” she went on. 
“Such good tenants, we were lucky to find them! 
You know, it was Kirdles’ idea to speculate in hav¬ 
ing the cottage done up and furnished in the latest 
cottage chintzes and fake oaks; and now she is 
getting quite a big rental for it. She is a wonder, 
isn’t she?” 

“Well, you know, she has you and Mr. Eldrid to 
help her. It was he who did up that cottage so 
artistically that nobody could resist it.” 

“I think it was the secret chamber that did the 


Valery Hesitates 195 

business with those funny old things. They have 
a great idea of rural England, and when Kirdles 
showed them that curious little door behind the 
ingle-nook, they were overjoyed. Remind me this 
evening to write them a line of apology, saying I 
was suddenly called away.” 

As she spoke there came through the woods the 
sound of a musical call. “Well,” said Val, sitting 
upright and dropping her primrose, “if I didn’t 
know he was two or three hundred miles away I 
should say that was Lyn.” 

She listened, and the call was repeated. It 
sounded nearer. Raising her voice, she replied with 
a call of three notes; and there came back the 
answer, the two final notes of the call they always 
used. 

“It is Lyn! Has Carfrae turned him out of house 
and home, and is he come to beg the hospitality of 
the Grange?” 

She sprang to her feet and beheld Lyn coming 
through the purple-brown branches of the as yet 
leafless willows, a-glisten with gold and silver 
catkins. 

He waved his hand as soon as he saw her, and his 
first words were in his own vein. 

“I say, I took a ticket to Westmorland this 
morning and they’ve made a mistake and put me 
out at Paradise.” 

“It is pretty lovely, isn’t it?” said Val, scanning 
his face for some reason for this sudden appearance. 
“But I wish you had waited for your translation just 


196 His Second Venture 

a day or two, as our particular mansion in Paradise 
is not ready for our reception, our apotheosis being 
unexpected; and Mrs. Pearce gave us some cold 
chicken and bundled us out to picnic while she swept 
and garnished.” 

“It’s all right, Val. Pve not come to stay. I 
told Mrs. Pearce I shouldn’t want a bed. Pve come 
for a talk with you, and if you’ll stroll with me along 
this path I think we may as well begin it now.” 

Val glanced swiftly at Madge and shook her 
head. “If you have come to talk me into changing 
my mind,” said she, “you have wasted a return 
ticket, Lyn.” 

He eyed her keenly. “I have no intention of 
saying one single word of persuasion, Mrs. Caron. 
I have come here to put you in possession of various 
facts which I think you should know, and with which 
no one has made you acquainted.” 

Val shrugged and looked obstinate. “I should 
think it took you the whole day in the train to com¬ 
pose that sentence,” said she flippantly. “You must 
have got up early this morning. 

But she turned her back on Madge and strolled 
off with him. 

“Now,” said Lyn, “I suppose that you will admit 
that this affair between you and Car is an affair for 
your two selves only?” 

“I not only admit that, Lyn. I insist upon it,” 
she returned softly. 

“All right. Then, if you were to find out that 
you are mistaken in that idea, and that the matter 


Valery Hesitates 197 

is far more serious and more complicated than you 
suppose, you might possibly have to reconsider your 
position. I mean this. When Car went off and left 
you, his action was humiliating for you, and in the 
very small circle of people that knew that Valery 
Knight existed. But it was not a national affair. 
The newspapers did not ring with your name, nor 
was your social position attacked and rendered 
untenable. You were not held up to popular 
odium-” 

“You suggest that this would happen to Carfrae 
as a result of my refusal to live in his house ?” 

“Yes, I do suggest it.” He pointed out, shortly 
but vividly, what the position was. “What I want 
you to understand is,” he concluded, “that, if you 
persist in your present course of action, you will do 
infinitely more harm to Car than he ever did to you. 
I don’t say you would not be justified, but I do think 
you ought to know what you’re doing.” 

“And I suppose, the moment I had gone, he got 
hold of you and urged you to take his part—to 
plead with me-” 

Lyndsay laughed. “I told him I thought he had 
a strong case, and asked him why he had not put 
his side of the matter before you. Shall I tell you 
what his answer was: What! Ask her to stay 
with me against her will because her presence would 
suit my convenience? So likely, isn y t it? } ” 

The colour rushed to Val’s cheeks, and water to 
her eyes. She clenched her hands. “He said that? 
It was generous. I’ll admit it. But, Lyn,” she 




198 His Second Venture 

burst out piteously, “what am I to do? That’s my 
difficulty! What am I to do? You know perfectly 
well that I don’t want to be a cat. If my being 
there, in the house, would help him, as he thinks, 
to a seat in Parliament, and so on, I’d do that much 
for him, like a shot. But you can see for yourself 
that, if I do it, he has got me caught in the toils. 
I could never get out after that—and think of a 
whole lifetime spent in avoiding one another, except 
for the occasions on which we must be seen to¬ 
gether? . * , Oh, Lyn, Lyn, after all, I have only 
one life, just as he has. Is his life so much more 
valuable than mine, that I should be expected to sac¬ 
rifice my whole future to it? Is that fair to me, is it 
just? I am not asked only to surrender every hope 
a woman has—love, motherhood, companionship— 
but my University degree—my hope of independ¬ 
ence—just to secure his social position—his, the man 

who never for one moment considered me-” 

Lyndsay made no reply. He was not looking at 
her, but away, over the beauty of the land. 

“Well,” she gasped, at last. “I suppose my life 
isn’t, after all, of such unutterable importance; but 
it’s the only one I’ve got-” she broke off, quiver¬ 

ing, for under his beath Lyn had murmured, “Is 
it?” 

“Other heights in other lives, God willing ” mut¬ 
tered the young man shyly. 

Valery flashed a glance at him and stood im¬ 
movable, making no reply at all. At last- 

“It’s so easy to advise self-sacrifice to other 





Valery Hesitates 199 

people, isn’t it?” she said, in an unreal voice, pro¬ 
vocative, miserable. ■**, 

“I’ve given no such advice. No advice of any 
kind,” he replied steadily. “I came here to tell you 
facts, not to argue, or persuade. I only thought you 
ought to have the whole case put before you. 
There’s one other thing to mention, and then I’ve 
done.” 

“Mention away,” she challenged him derisively. 

“Car goes in danger of his life, according to 
Adney, and I don’t think Adney’s a scaremonger.” 

“In danger of his life! From whom, pray?” 

“From this tribe, the Halis of the Chugga coun¬ 
try, the people who guard Hal-i-Mor.” 

“You mean he was in danger of his life when he 
was out there among them?” 

“I mean he is at the present moment, or may 
be shortly, here in England. Hal-i-Mor is a sacred 
city. So far as can be ascertained, the present tribe 
have been in possession ever since the Romans 
evacuated it. True, the greater part of it is under 
sand, but those sites which have been preserved are 
guarded with the utmost rigour. The point is, how¬ 
ever, that these people are far more formidable than 
one would suppose. It seems they have always been 
secretly in touch with Egypt, all down the centuries, 
in spite of the thousand miles of desert between. 
They have heard of the loosening of British control 
in Egypt. They have also heard of the desecration, 
at the hands of the English, of the carefully hidden 
tomb of Tutankhamen. They are so rich as to sug- 


200 His Second Venture 

gest that they must possess secret hoards of ancient 
treasure; and they think we mean to have this. They 
believe Car to have magic powers because he pre¬ 
dicted an eclipse. They want to kill him because 
they fear him.” 

“But why does Carfrae think that they are after 
him? Has he been followed?” 

“He was, in Rome. The man tracking him got 
turned back at the frontier; but neither he nor 
Adney seem to think it at all unlikely that he or 
someone like him may turn up in Hertfordshire* 
That would cut the knot for you, wouldn’t it? If 
they get him? And in England an assassin has a 
clear field so long as he doesn’t mind whether he is 
caught or no. The Halis, being fanatics, probably 
would be quite indifferent to punishment.” 

“Does he take any precaution?” 

“Adney does. He won’t let him go anywhere 
alone; and I fancy they are both armed; but Carfrae 
said last night after you had gone that he thought 
the easiest way out would be to relax all precautions 
and let them pick him off. He wanted to leave 
Archwood then and there, but I persuaded him to 
stay a few days, if only for the look of the thing.” 

“Aster comes home on Thursday, and the boys 
on Friday,” murmured Valery, her eyes full of 
thoughts. There was another long pause, which 
Lyn made no attempt to break. He pulled out his 
tobacco pouch and filled his abominable old pipe 
with care. 

“Suppose,” burst out Val suddenly, “suppose 


Valery Hesitates 201 

that I were to say that I would do what you 
suggest-” 

“Val! I haven’t suggested a thing-” 

“Suppose I do what you evidently consider would 
be the decent thing—fling away my whole future for 
the sake of Carfrae’s seat in Parliament—for that’s 
what it amounts to—what security have I that he 
would keep to—to any agreement we might make? 
On what terms should I go back? Could you make 
him understand that my feeling is entirely un¬ 
changed, that if I come it is stipulated that neither 
now nor at any future time does he make any at¬ 
tempt to change our footing? Not that I can sup¬ 
pose he would ever wish to do so; but one never 
knows. . . . Oh, Lyndsay!” suddenly the tears 
sprang to her eyes, ran down her cheeks, “I can’t! 
I really can’t! You don’t know what you’re asking.” 

“For the third time, I’m not asking anything at 
all.” 

“That’s not true—that’s not true. You’re against 
me! I always thought you were my friend, but the 
minute he comes back you turn against me-” 

Lyn laughed harshly. “I’m jolly well ’twixt 
hammer and anvil,” he declared with sarcasm. 
“Last night Carfrae bitterly accused me of being in 
league with you and Kirdles against him, and said 
he fully expected to find the children in the same 
camp! Jolly, isn’t it? I assure you I simply love 
my present errand, and am most grateful for your 
kind appreciation.” 

Val was sobbing unashamed, her shoulders 




202 His Second Venture 

heaved. “I’m a b-beast,” she owned, “but oh, Lyn, 
I am so miserable. What about Kirdles? Did she 
know you were coming?’* 

“She did. She and I had a heart-to-heart talk 
last night—or rather in the early hours of this morn¬ 
ing; and then she made me strong coffee and I went 
off to catch the market train at Marterstead. She 
wrote me a letter to bring to you.’* 

“A letter? Why don’t you give it me, then?” 

“She said that if you came to a decision independ¬ 
ently I was not to let you have it.” 

“I’ve come to no decision. I see no way out 
of this morass of misery. I only feel that you’re 
putting pressure on me . . . that it’s not fair . . . 
that I can’t see clearly. Let me read—I want to 
know what she says; she is a clear-headed old soul.” 

“My child, I pity you from the bottom of my 
heart. God guide you in this decision. It does not 
seem to me to be a matter of right and wrong, but 
rather a question of your own inmost feeling. There 
is no easy way out of such a dilemma. I foresee 
much difficulty, and I fear also much unhappiness 
for you, whichever course you take; but, judging 
from my knowledge of you and your temperament, 
I think perhaps you will be unhappier in repudiating 
your husband than you could be in sacrificing your 
own future to his. 

“Whichever way you decide, I shall do all in my 
power to uphold and support you. Remember, I am 
speaking from personal experience when I assert, as 


Valery Hesitates 203 

I do, that a woman's life can be very happy, even 
though shorn of the special kind of happiness which 
congenial marriage brings. 

“Your loving, faithful, old 


Kirdles.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


ON CONDITION 

I T was nearly nine o’clock on the evening of 
Wednesday. Dinner at Archwood was over, 
and Caron had, with apologies, brought himself and 
his pipe into the drawing-room for the sake of Miss 
Kirby’s society. 

He had spent the morning with her inspecting 
the accounts; and the afternoon in pottering about 
his property, also in her helpful society. 

Owing to his protracted absence and his months 
of captivity, she had been obliged, with Lyndsay’s 
full sanction, to take things into her own hands 
much more completely than she had expected to 
have to do; and it was an enormous relief to her to 
find what she had done approved so whole-heartedly. 

The estate was small, but as they kept their own 
cows and made their own hay, it needed supervision. 
She had nothing but praise for Willis the gardener 
and Adams the cow-man, who with his wife man¬ 
aged the live-stock, churned the butter, and so on. 
They had much more milk, butter and garden-stuff 
than they themselves could consume. The remain¬ 
der had been marketed, and the result was that the 
farm and poultry showed a balance. The unlet 
cottage also had been turned from an anxiety into 
204 


On Condition 205 

a source of revenue, though it had only been let 
within the past six months; but the first year’s rent 
would almost compensate for the money expended 
upon it, since Lyndsay had amused himself with the 
decorative part. 

“I can’t think what we should have done without 
him. He has been the greatest help and support; 
just like a big brother to Valery,” she said fondly. 

She was surprised at herself for daring to say it; 
but in truth she found the colonel much gentler and 
more approachable than she had expected. His 
gratitude to her was warm, his sorrow for her 
forthcoming departure most sincere. 

It was not until the evening that he spoke of his 
wife at all; but the ice once broken, he sat listening 
in an absorbed way to all that Kirdles would tell 
him about her. She held out no hopes at all that 
Val’s attitude might change. “She was too hard 
hit,” said she, “and her nature is very steadfast. 
The agony she went through seemed to sear her, 
and I consider her now as much too old for her 
age as she was ridiculously too young when you 
married her. Oxford always takes over and moulds 
a girl in an astonishing way. She is,a highly finished 
product of her day and generation; but she has lost 
something that she used to have—that beautiful 
trust—that confidence in the good intention of 
others-” 

He made a sound that was like a groan. “If one 
had a chance to atone—to let her see that I am not 
such a brute as I have showed myself to her . . . 



206 His Second Venture 

but the course she has taken rules out that. Oh, 
I don’t blame her. I realise that, feeling as she 
does, it was the only thing she could do; but it makes 
me feel hopeless. I”—he hesitated and could hardly 
bring it out—“I daren’t picture what the children 
will say.” 

“Ah, indeed,” she^ agreed sadly. “Don’t think 
that I am not sorry for you. I am. On the other 
hand, I think you must admit that you have only 
yourself to blame.” 

“I suppose so,” he owned heavily. “I was old 
enough to have been able to extricate myself and 
her by some other means than those I took. My one 
excuse is that I never supposed that this situation— 
my return—would arise at all, since I did not expect 
to come back.” 

As he spoke there was a sound of wheels outside. 
“Hark! That sounds like a car! Who can it be, 
so late ? Driving up through the paddock and into 
the stable yard-” 

Miss Kirby remained, a knitting needle poised 
in one hand, listened intently. There was a pause 
which lengthened itself into minutes. Then the 
door opened, and Lyndsay came quietly in. 

“Lyndsay! Back already,” she faltered, assum¬ 
ing his certain failure from his almost incredibly 
swift return. 

Lyndsay went up to Carfrae and stood before 
him, slowly drawing off his fur-lined gloves. 

“Carfrae,” he said, “Valery is here.” 

As Caron sprang to his feet, he made a motion 


On Condition 207 

for him to sit still. “She will not come in without 
guarantees.” 

“You mean,” said Caron, and to Lyndsay’s aston¬ 
ishment he could hardly articulate, “you mean that 
she would stay—would come back to this house if 
—if-” 

“If you will give her your word of honour, as a 
gentleman, not to presume upon her action. She 
does not want anything in writing. She says it 
will be enough if you pledge your word, in the pres¬ 
ence of myself and Kirdles, that she will be neither 
molested nor importuned.” He drew a slip of 
paper from his pocket and glanced at it. “I made 
a memorandum here of what she asks. Shall I 
read it?” 

Caron nodded without speaking. 

“She is to live as heretofore, in her own quarters, 
without change. She is to undertake to appear as 
your wife officially, whenever occasion demands that 
she shall do so, to take her meals with you, and to 
say nothing to the children of any estrangement 
between you. Her leisure to be her own, and no 
reference to the past to be made by either of you 
except by mutual consent. She is to be free to come 
and go as she pleases, but will undertake not to 
absent herself when her doing so would be injurious 
to your political or social position.” 

Caron folded his arms. His gaze was fixed upon 
the ground. 

“I can’t accept it,” he said gruffly. “Such an 
arrangement would render any subsequent suit for 



208 His Second Venture 

nullity very difficult. This would mean that she 
flung away her whole future to shield me from ad¬ 
verse public comment. Tell her I thank her. Tell 
her I realise, as bitterly as she could possibly desire, 
the contrast between her behaviour and my own. 
But I can’t accept.” 

There was a silence. “I think,” said Lyndsay 
hesitatingly, after a while, “that she means it quite 
seriously. She has come back prepared to stay. 
Am I to send her away?” 

Caron made a slight gesture of helplessness. The 
time of night made it difficult to turn his wife from 
his doors; yet . . . 

Miss Kirby had been looking worried, had seemed 
to be at a loss, had made slight restless movements. 
Suddenly she stuck both pins into her ball of wool 
and leaned forward earnestly. She had evidently 
made up her mind. 

“Colonel Caron,” said she, “accept that offer. 
Valery meant it and will stand by it. I love her 
far better than I love anything else on earth. I 
would gladly die for her; and yet I advise you to 
let her follow the course on which she has deter¬ 
mined. God forgive me if I’m giving wrong counsel, 
but I believe I am right. This is her own deci¬ 
sion-” 

Carfrae cried out: “But is it? Is it? Hasn’t 
she been coerced? Lyndsay goes tearing after her 
all the way to Grendon, and exerts every art to 
persuade-” 

“Easy on, Car. I never said one word to per¬ 
suade. I wouldn’t even advise. I simply laid your 




On Condition 209 

side of the case before her. I wanted her to see the 
situation as it was, and I gave it to her as best I 
could. She thought it over for a couple of hours, 
and made her own decision.” 

“If I consent, she’ll only think me still more con¬ 
temptible a hound than she already does.” 

“She suggests,” put in Lyndsay, “that the agree¬ 
ment shall last only for a year. At the end of that 
time it may be renewed or not, as circumstances 
demand.” 

“A year,” muttered the husband. To himself 
he added something like this: “If I’m anything 
like a man, can’t I woo and win her with a year’s 
chance?” The honest grey eyes of Kirdles, study¬ 
ing him, read his thought as clearly as if spoken 
aloud. It was her thought too, but in her case it 
might more correctly be described as a prayer. 

Caron turned to Lvndsay. “Ask my wife to 
come in,” he said in expressionless tones. Lyndsay 
turned and went out. Once more there fell between 
the two who remained a silence unbroken by word 
or movement. Caron stood with his hands behind 
him, his back to the fire, his legs planted somewhat 
defiantly. With his whole being he seemed to be 
listening. 

Lyndsay was evidently recounting the conversa¬ 
tion, for long minutes passed by and nothing hap¬ 
pened. Kirdles, her eyes fixed upon the colonel, 
wondered how long he could possibly maintain that 
motionless calm—or if it would be possible for a 
living man to grow paler than he had grown. 


210 His Second Venture 

Then the door opened and the two travellers came 
in together. 

Valery wore her driving suit, strapped with 
leather, and a leather pull-on hat, with a bit of 
burnished peacock’s breast feather at one side. As 
she advanced to the hearth where Caron awaited 
her, it could be seen that she was as white as he. 
She went straight forward, however, and held out 
her hand to him. He took it with a start, as though 
he had not expected it to be offered. 

“I undertake,” said he without preface, “to ob¬ 
serve all your conditions, as Lyndsay has explained 
them to me, in Miss Kirby’s presence. They are 
both witnesses to the fact that I pledge myself to 
respect your wishes. I—I also thank you for the— 
the sacrifice you are making. I will do all I can to 
prevent it’s being unendurable.” 

Something in his tone—a passion of regret or of 
tenderness which he could not repress, made her 
lift her heavy lids and look at him. She had been 
at the wheel for many hours, and had had no sleep 
the previous night. The acute emotion of having 
made her surrender, and further, of its being ac¬ 
cepted—of finding herself again, so soon and so 
unexpectedly, in the house with the man who had so 
injured her, smote upon her fatigue and her strained, 
nerves so strongly that she fainted away, turning 
from him when she felt her knees giving way, and 
falling into the lap of Kirdles as she lost 
consciousness. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


VALERY PLAYS UP 

S O you’re going to be our member,” cried Sir 
George Bowyer, shaking hands cordially with 
the hero of Hal-i-Mor. “Oh, we shall get you in, 
never fear! You’ll head the poll all right. I think 
that charming girl your wife would have stood a 
very good chance herself, if she had taken a fancy 
to contest the seat. Mind you put her on to speak! 
She addressed more than one meeting for us at the 
General Election last year, and she’s really very 
good.” 

“Nonsense, Sir George,” put in Valery quietly. 
She stood at her husband’s side, well turned out 
and self-possessed. Only those who knew her well 
could have detected anything unnatural in her man¬ 
ner. “You know I’m only a beginner; but I have 
promised to do all I can for him.” 

The members of the deputation from the local 
organisation were standing about in the Archwood 
drawing-room, drinking tea, which Miss Kirby 
poured out, and Lyndsay helped to carry round. 

Nobody could have believed that in the interval 
between Monday night and Wednesday night Valery 
had driven a car to Westmorland and back; nor 
that her fatigue had been so extreme that she had 
211 


2X2 


His Second Venture 

been carried up to bed the previous evening, and had 
not made an appearance that day downstairs until 
half an hour before the arrival of the deputation. 
Her vigorous youth allowed no sign of either mental 
or bodily distress to appear. The colonel, on the 
other hand, was haggard, and there were dark 
marks under his eyes. He looked, as several friends 
declared, as though he needed the bracing air of 
his native county. 

Hugh Hatherlegh, watching keenly, saw how hard 
it was for him to keep his eyes off his wife. What, 
he wondered, and continued to wonder, was the exact 
state of things between the two? Had they rushed 
into each other’s arms? Did a mutual passion lurk 
under their self-contained exterior? He remarked 
that Mrs. Caron was wearing a long chain of rare 
and curiously coloured stones, evidently from Africa. 

He had no chance to talk—to try and probe be¬ 
neath the surface. There was a general movement 
of departure, and he went perforce with the others 
to take his leave. 

“How long is Mrs. Caron’s vacation?” he asked 
of Lyndsay who was passing near. 

“Oh, haven’t you heard? She’s not going back 
to Oxford, at least not next term. She’s postponing 
her own work to help Caron with all he has on hand. 
Rather fine, don’t you think?” 

“Fine indeed; but Mrs. Caron has always struck 
me as being what we understand by that word. Her 
husband looks to be many years older than she.” 

“There’s a disparity, certainly, but not so great as 


Valery Plays Up 213 

you might suppose. Carfrae has been at death’s 
door in a tropical climate, and that isn’t calculated 
to improve a man’s appearance, you know. We hope 
a few months at home will set him up completely.” 

“And Mrs. Caron is surrendering her college life, 
which she found so delightful ? I almost wonder at 
his accepting the sacrifice.” 

“Oh, we hope it isn’t as bad as all that! She 
hopes to go up next year, and says she will be all 
the better for the extra time. She isn’t giving up 
her reading. Carfrae is anxious that she should 
not do that. He realises that he is upsetting all 
her arrangements; but naturally he feels as if he 
could not do without her.” 

“Oh, naturally. Well, good-bye! I’m off.” 

Valery and her husband were standing together 
near the door, shaking hands with their departing 
guests. As Hatherlegh approached, she welcomed 
him with a smile which somewhat consoled him. 
“Wait a minute or two,” she told him, lowering her 
voice, “and we’ll walk down the paddock with you. 
The boys’ train is due, and Baker has gone down to 
the station to collect them. They will be in a rage 
because I have not gone too. They don’t know their 
father is back, it will be such a surprise for them.” 

Hatherlegh waited gladly enough until all the 
others had passed out. Valery then directed Lynd- 
say to go to the hall and fetch her coat; and she, 
Caron, Lyndsay and Hatherlegh went out through 
the long window in the drawing-room, upon the 


214 His Second Venture 

terrace, and down through the garden to the small 
park known as the paddock. 

The gravelling of the drive being not yet com¬ 
plete, the departing cars were all leaving by this 
route. To the right of the carriage road they fol¬ 
lowed was a wide grassy expanse, with various small 
plantations and clumps of trees; to the left a road 
branched off which led through the farmyard to 
the stables. Near the Park Gate, which opened 
upon a lonely road known as Moorside Lane, stood 
the Dairy Lodge, slightly off the path, to the left. 
It was looking so pretty among the budding trees 
and lilac bushes that Hatherlegh remarked upon it, 
and Val and Lyn related with glee their latest enter¬ 
prise in bringing it up to date and letting it. 

“It was Miss Kirby who first had the brilliant 
idea. She saw its possibilities, and she thought 
the Ideal Home stunt, brought to bear upon it, 
would bring us a tenant in no time. And so it did* 
Two old ladies who were in rooms at Marterstead, 
searching in vain for a house, heard about it, and 
they wrote to us before the cottage was ready, and 
took it there and then, not seeming to mind what 
rent we asked, so we never needed to advertise. 
Ah! there are the two quaint old dears coming 
out in their pony cart ! I must go and make my 
apologies, because I was to have had tea with them 
the day before yesterday, only I had to go away 
unexpectedly.” 

The small chaise, containing two old ladies in 
cloaks and wide-brimmed hats, emerged slowly 


Valery Plays Up 215 

from the stable gate of the Lodge and turned 
towards the exit from the park. Val had no diffi¬ 
culty in catching it up, and she greeted them first in 
a few words of very halting Spanish, then in English, 
which they spoke fluently, though with a strong 
accent. 

“Something most exciting has just happened,” 
she said gaily. “My husband has come home. May 
I present him to you, since he is your landlord?” 

The wrinkled old faces beamed with smiles. 
“But he is a ver’ great ’ero, ze Colonel Caron,” said 
the elder one, extending a hand in a woollen glove, 
which she placed upon the colonel’s, not in it—as 
if she expected to have it kissed. 

They chatted for some minutes, the old dames 
inquiring of his return and his adventures, and 
Valery making her excuses for having broken her 
engagement with them. Then, with eagerness, but 
half shyly too, they wondered whether a so-great 
’ero, with so many calls upon his time, would do 
them the great favour to accompany his wife to 
have tea with them one afternoon? 

Caron answered for himself, in much more fluent 
Spanish than his wife could boast. “To tell you 
the truth, ladies, I have heard so much about the 
way your cottage has been restored, that I am really 
very eager to see the interior, so your invitation 
is most kind.” He drew out a diary, in which the 
entries were already growing alarmingly numerous, 
and glanced down its pages. 

They waited breathlessly, while he pondered, 


2 i6 His Second Venture 

finally suggesting a day about a week ahead, to which 
they joyfully agreed. 

Hardly had their tiny conveyance gone out upon 
the main road, when the hum of the returning car 
was heard, and Baker drove in, through the gate 
held open by Lyndsay; and at a sign from him, 
stopped just inside, when immediately there tumbled 
out Lance and Humphrey, who with yells of joy 
hurled themselves upon Valery, hugging her and 
in the same breath claiming to know what she meant 
by not being at the station. 

“Oh, boys, boys, give me a chance! Look round! 
Whom do you see?” 

A moment’s thrilling pause, and then the shout 
of “Father!” 

Little Humphrey was absurdly shy, his father 
being practically a stranger to him; but Lance’s hug 
was the first tribute of family affection the colonel 
had known since his return. He reciprocated vigor¬ 
ously; and, Baker being told to go ahead with the 
luggage, the family turned to stroll back to the 
house, and Hatherlegh must reluctantly take his 
leave. He moved off dejectedly, and as he walked 
along Moorside Lane outside the park fence, his 
eyes dwelt upon the animated group. 

He watched Lance, walking with one arm in his 
, father’s and the other in his stepmother’s, his face, 
alight with eagerness, turned first to one and then 
to the other; while little Humphrey held firmly to 
Uncle Lyn, but walked quite closely on his father’s 
other side. 

A family picture, which made the heart of the 


Valery Plays Up 217 

Squire of Lannerswyck sore. As he passed out of 
sight he plunged his hand into his pocket and drew 
out a letter he had received that morning from his 
cousin Albinia. 

“Whom should I meet here the other day in the 
street but Carfrae Caron ! It was a surprise to both 
of us, and I think he felt slightly uncomfortable. 
He seemed to know nothing whatever of his wife 
and family, and to care less. However, he came to 
life a bit when I showed him the photo of Lyndsay’s 
portrait of his wife. Perhaps his hardships and 
privations have injured his brain! But he talked 
coherently enough. If he has a spark of feeling for 
the girl, he had better be off home at once, and so 
I told him. Lyndsay Eldrid is a good sort, but even 
the staunchest friendships break down under too 
great a strain, don’t they? And, of course, she is 
attractive, though not to me.” . . . 

Was it Albinia’s warning which had sent the hus¬ 
band so quickly home? At all events, here he was, 
settled in as firmly, as quietly, as though he had 
never been away at all. Hatherlegh’s scarcely born 
romance died in his breast. 

Adney, who had been taking the air in the pad- 
dock, in the casual way in which he always hovered 
about when his master was out, came walking up 
the broad gravel road some distance behind the 
party, surveying with satisfaction the group in front. 
Presently Lance turned back, saw him, and appar* 
ently asked his father who that was; for the colonel 
gave him a shout and he went running forward. 


218 His Second Venture 

“Here, Adney, here’s this lad says he doesn’t 
remember you.” 

“Oh, Master Lance, and I put you on your first 
pony, just outside the barracks at Nunapur!” 

Lance’s face lit up. “Was he called Whiskers?” 
he cried. “I do remember, then. You brought him 
every morning. How do you do, Adney, jolly glad 
to see you.” 

As they all passed on to the house, where Kirdles 
was awaiting them, Mrs. Caron fell back and said 
in a low voice to Adney, “I want a word with you.” 

“Yes, madam?” 

He stopped and looked respectfully yet keenly 
at her. He knew, of course, that she had bolted 
and that Mr. Eldrid had fetched her back; though 
that was not the way he put it to the household staff. 
To them he said: 

“I had it straight from the colonel that Mrs. 
Caron had promised to take Miss Burton up north, 
an arrangement that had been made before there 
was question of his coming back. She went and 
she returned, and so that’s that.” 

“And what,” demanded a sceptical parlour-maid, 
“has now become of Miss Burton?” 

“She’s at Grendon Grange, and I hear it’s likely 
that the two young gentlemen and Miss Aster will 
join her there seeing that the colonel has his hands 
full, and I hear they like staying at the Grange.” 

“Like it? That they do,” said the cook. “All 
last summer holidays they were there, and year 
before that too-” 



Valery Plays Up 219 

“Colonel was telling me,” pursued Adney, “that 
Mr. Eldrid has got a couple of ponies there that he 
keeps for them to ride.” 

The staff sniffed collectively. 

“What’s the good of this stuff you’re givin’ us? 
We know there’s something queer. Husbands and 
wives sleepin’ on different floors—so natural, isn’t 
it?” 

Adney was not only not abashed, he actually 
burst out laughing at this critic. “So nice for ’em 
to start a honeymoon, wouldn’t it be, in this house, 
as full of people as an egg’s full of meat? No! 
Let the colonel get through all these here banquets 
and receptions and electioneering, and what not, 
and then they’ll go off together comfortable—see if 
they don’t.” 

“Something in that, no doubt,” said the cook 
pensively. 

“Something? There’s everything in it, with any¬ 
one like the colonel, that’s a real gentleman, not one 
of these temporaries,” returned Adney contemptu¬ 
ously. 

Therefore it was with eyes which, though veiled, 
were extremely observant that he now faced Valery 
in the garden. 

“Adney, Mr. Eldrid was saying something to me 
about your thinking there might be danger for the 
colonel from—from assassins?” 

“Yes ’m ” 

“That is serious—real—to be guarded against?” 

“Yes ’m. You see, these Hali chaps have got 


220 His Second Venture 

the Huns behind ’em. There was some Hun Bolshies 
there when we arrived, selling arms to the natives 
and getting good and ready to stir up hell in those 
parts, and the colonel lifted ’em. That’s the real 
truth of the matter, though it was kept out of the 
papers; and though the chap that was after us 
never got beyond Modane, still, there’s a heap of 
Hun Bolshies in England, and when they get word, 
they’ll be getting busy, likely as not.” 

“Have you seen or heard anything suspicious 
since he got here?” 

“Nothing at all, ma’am; and I’ve kept my eyes 
skinned. Also Baker, the showfer. He’s a good 
sort. I’m armed, and so’s the colonel, all the time.” 

“I’m not, and it would be of no use if I were, I 
can’t use a revolver. But I have taken one pre¬ 
caution. I’ve bought a big, shrill whistle, and I 
have it always on me. If you hear me whistle once, 
wherever I may be, come to me; but if I whistle 
twice in succession come double quick. Do you 
understand? One whistle means ‘Be at hand,’ two 
whistles mean ‘Come this moment.’ ” 

“Right ’m,” said Adney, with a look of new 
friendliness. “It’s a good idea; for the colonel, 
he’s rash, you know, and doesn’t understand fear.” 

“No; and Adney, one thing more. If you see or 
hear anything, anywhere, that makes you suspicious, 
let me know without delay, please. I shall be with 
him all the time, and I shall want to know what to 
look out for.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


ELECTIONEERING 

L IKE the first great crisis in her life, the second 
had flashed past on Valery’s horizon, leaving 
her so bruised and defeated that she hardly knew 
what had happened. 

As on the former occasion, she had been taken 
by the hand of her husband, and moved, as one 
moves a pawn on the board, into the position where 
he would have her be. 

On her wedding-day, having no use for her, he 
had removed her and flung her into a drawer to 
await his further pleasure. He had returned later, 
found that she could be in some respects convenient, 
even necessary to his plans, and had forthwith drawn 
her out once more, and set her in her place, to move 
as his hand directed. 

She had yielded the main point, and now she 
wondered what had induced her to do so. She was 
in a state of smouldering rebellion, of dumb resent¬ 
ment, of fell determination—that nothing—noth¬ 
ing!—should shift her from her final refuge; the 
refuge of her own spiritual independence. 

She summoned Kirdles to her aid, with the object 
of arranging that in no circumstances should she 
be left tete-a-tete with her husband. “You promised 
221 


222 His Second Venture 

me your help and support, whichever way I might 
decide,” said she, “but it was you who tipped the 
scale for me—you know it was. You said you 
thought I should be even more miserable if I re¬ 
fused than I am now. Well, it’s hard to believe, 
but in any case, here I am; and you must keep your 
promise of help and support. You have got to 
chaperon me all the time.” 

“Why? Are you afraid that Colonel Caron 
will make advances?” 

“Yes, if you want to know, I am afraid he will. 
There are several reasons. The first is that he is 
British and he thinks I belong to him, and that what 
is his is his own, to do as he likes with. He would 
like to be able to feel that his control over me was 
absolute, whereas now he knows that he has no 
control over me, that whatever I do, is done because 
I have made up my own mind to do it. The next 
reason is that I have turned out a good deal better¬ 
looking than he expected, and therefore he would 
like to be on good terms with me. It would be 
pleasant. The third reason is his dread of scandal, 
which may still assail us, you know, in spite of our 
pious exterior. Servants talk.” 

“Val, you are very bitter.” 

“Well, you can’t have thought that the course 
I am now taking was likely to sweeten me, can you? 
However, in any case, I am the captain of my soul, 
and I’m not going to take a penny piece from him 
to spend on clothes. I’ll pay for my presentation 
gown and all these other ridiculous garments (which 


Electioneering 223 

I shall never wear again as long as I live) out of the 
last two hundred of my precious thousand. That 
will mean that I shan’t be able to go back to Oxford, 
for I’m jolly hard up; but at least I shall not have 
sold my help and countenance to him!” 

“Val, this is sheer folly. If you must have these 
things in order to do what your husband wishes, 
he ought to pay for them.” 

“I’d sooner be indebted to a jungle tiger than 
to him for anything!” came the violent retort. 

As it left Val’s lips the colonel entered the room. 
Nothing in his quiet aspect indicated that he had 
heard the words. 

“I came to tell you that I have just had a note 
from the Miss La Placis,” he said. “They are both 
down with the ’flu, and will not be able to receive 
us next Tuesday as planned. However,” he held 
out the note to her, “they hope it is only a pleasure 
postponed. I shall have to postpone it for a good 
while I fear; we are becoming inundated with en¬ 
gagements.” 

Val glanced down the page. “All the better,” 
said she in even tones, as unlike those which he had 
in fact overheard, as the cooing of a dove is unlike 
the hoot of a motor-horn. “I shall be able to take 
the children out primrosing that afternoon.” 

“I also came,” he went on, “to know whether 
you would like to go up to town to-day, as I have 
to, and have ordered the car immediately after 
lunch?” 

“Yes, please let me come too; I have to be fitted 


224 His Second Venture 

with frocks and buy hats and shoes and all kinds 
of things.” 

His face brightened. “Quarter to two too early 
for you?” 

“Will it be too early for us, Kirdles?” asked 
Val, fully aware of the way in which his face fell. 

Kirdles agreed to the time, and Val went out 
of the room. 

Carfrae waited until she was out of earshot, and 
then said in dropped tones, “I suppose she was 
referring to me just now?” 

Kirdles could not deny it. “You must forgive 
her. She is very miserable,” she murmured awk¬ 
wardly. 

After a long silence: “I learned patience in the 
desert,” said he calmly; and went away with no 
more words. 

Valery constantly manoeuvred that there should 
be a third in the car when they drove. But she could 
not always manage it. Now and again they would 
set out for some function, the colonel in full dress 
uniform, looking like a picture of the typical British 
soldier-aristocrat and herself as well turned out as 
any woman they were likely to meet. On these 
occasions, as soon as they were seated side by side, 
she would ask him for information on some point 
of etiquette, or more usually upon his own African 
experiences, a subject of which she never seemed 
to weary and upon which she soon became expert 
to a degree which astonished him. 

Her political acumen was also a surprise. She 


Electioneering 225 

collected data for him, made notes for speeches. 
She was indefatigable in working for him; but to 
play with him she steadfastly declined. 

He would look out of the window at the tennis 
going forward on the gravel court, which Lyndsay 
had caused to be made, at his own expense, the 
previous year. Aster and Lyndsay against Val and 
Lance made up an even four, and they fought their 
matches hard, though always, as Carfrae thankfully 
noted, without wrangling. If he himself asked for 
a game, he was warmly welcomed, but Valery always 
regretted that there were notes she must write, 
frocks she must try on, calls she must pay: and so, 
on one pretext or another, left him to the others. 

One night the young people had invited four or 
five friends of their own age, and were up in the 
schoolroom playing that fierce and wonderful card 
game which to them was known as “Crash Demon” 
—the game in which everybody has a separate pack 
of cards, and builds upon everyone else’s aces. The 
fun was fast and furious, and Caron coming in to 
look on was begged to sit down. 

“Take my place,” said Valery, rising. “I prom¬ 
ised Kirdles to go and help her arrange a menu 
for to-morrow’s lunch to the constituency.” 

“Then,” passionately burst out Lance, who was 
much excited, “if you go, I shan’t play any morel 
Val, you wretched quitter .” 

The smack on the head which his father instantly 
bestowed was as surprising as it was painful. 

Wild at being unable to restrain his tears, the 


226 His Second Venture 

boy cried out to know what he had done to deserve 
a thick ear; and as usual when over-wrought or in 
any distress, flung himself into the shelter of Val’s 
arms, while she most ungratefully looked at Carfrae 
with resentment and reproach in her eyes. 

“Get out of it, Lance,” said Caron, feeling so 
enraged that he himself was surprised at it, “molly¬ 
coddle! Taking refuge among the petticoats 1 
Apologise to Val for what you called her, sir!” 

“If a chap can’t call his own sister a qu-quitter,” 
gasped the boy. “She didn’t mind, did you, Val?” 

“Well, I can’t say I liked it,” she replied dryly, 
“and if your father orders you to apologise, you’d 
better tell me you’re sorry.” 

“You know I’m sorry, old thing,” was the answer 
of the ill-judging Lance, flinging himself once more 
upon her. They exchanged a hearty kiss, during 
which the colonel’s fingers tingled to repeat the 
punishment he had lately administered. 

However, Val left the room and he sat down to 
play. Encountering her later that evening, when 
she came to give him a precis of a speech in the 
House which he wanted, he said apologetically, “I 
beg your pardon, Val, for losing my temper this 
evening; but I should be obliged if you’d caress 
Lance as little as you can. It isn’t good for him.” 

Valery looked at him with rising colour. Her 
chest heaved. 

“Poor little chap, he has no mother,” she said 
in a low voice. 

The simple answer shook him so badly that for a 


Electioneering 227 

moment he had nothing to say; and Valery after 
a slight hesitation went out of the room, leaving him 
to the realisation that his remark had been prompted 
by nothing in the world but a savage, helpless 
jealousy. 

It seemed that the holidays were soon over. The 
children rebelled against going to the Grange with¬ 
out Valery, even with the bribe of Madge Burton’s 
being there. They were perfectly content at home, 
and keenly though Carfrae sought an occasion to 
complain that Valery neglected him for them, she 
never gave him one. She had stipulated for leisure 
to use in her own way, and the way she chose was 
to pass it in the companionship of the children and 
Lyn, who always made one of the party. The colo¬ 
nel could make no objection. 

The youngsters, to Miss Kirby’s untold relief, 
never commented upon the state of affairs between 
Valery and their father, having the blessed faculty 
that children, in spite of introspective novels, al¬ 
most always have, of taking the existing state of 
things for granted. The colonel had never lived at 
home since his second marriage, and had Valery 
changed her sleeping accommodation, it might have 
excited more remark than did her going on in the 
usual way. Valery was conscious now and then of 
its not having escaped Aster’s attention; but Aster, 
in her first year at a public school, was in the throes 
of sharp reaction from precocious sex-tendency. She 
was immersed in hockey, cricket, the swimming bath 
and the “gym,” and scorned sentiment in the most 


228 His Second Venture 

approved fashion. She wore her hair almost as 
short as a boy’s, raced about in knickers as often 
as skirts, and cultivated a hoydenism destined to 
make way in a year or so for further developments. 

If Valery had feared that the end of the holidays 
might make her isolated position more difficult, she 
found nothing to support these forebodings. 

Except for that one brief outbreak about Lance, 
Caron’s manner to her was undeviatingly cold, con¬ 
siderate and gentle. He deferred to her wishes 
in everything, and never transgressed her stipula¬ 
tion concerning any mention of the past. 

By degrees she grew less nervous of being alone 
with him, less ready to take flight when he appeared. 
By the time he had been home six weeks, each knew 
what to expect from the other, and the agreement 
worked with a smoothness which Miss Kirby had 
been far from anticipating. 

Caron’s own nerves and those of Adney also were 
recovering tone, for nothing of any kind had been 
seen or heard since their arrival at Archwood to 
suggest the presence of any undesirable in the neigh¬ 
bourhood. 

The feting of the hero went on, and his election 
meetings became more numerous. Valery stood 
the long hours and the constantly recurring fatigue 
with all the force of her splendid, healthy youth. 
Kirdles thought that she grew every day more beau¬ 
tiful. Her face, with all its locked-up significance, 
its withheld emotions, its disciplined control, fas¬ 
cinated people without their knowing why. The 


Electioneering 229 

constituency went mad over her, the local paper ex¬ 
hausted itself in descriptions of her wonderful 
toilettes, her grand manner, her vivid speaking. 

It was a proud day for Adney, when he was first 
able to reply, “Yes, my lady,” to an order given 
him by the wife of Sir Carfrae Caron. There was 
no bitterness in his heart now where she was con¬ 
cerned. He did not know the secret of the cleavage 
which existed between the two; but he felt sure 
that it could not be permanent. He looked forward 
with longing to the end of the summer, when the 
hard work should be over, the baronet safely in 
Parliament, and the two set free to go upon what 
he had determined should be their honeymoon. 

It so happened that Carfrae had never heard his 
wife make a speech. He was always so busy that 
when she was at one place he must perforce go him¬ 
self in another direction. It was waste of power 
for them both to address the same meeting. 

One day, however, it chanced that there was a 
large afternoon meeting at Lufton, one of his oppo¬ 
nent’s strongholds; and they were both booked to 
be present, though only he was to speak. He was 
coming on from another meeting and her ladyship 
arrived in the County Hall before him. The chair¬ 
man was in a difficulty. He was himself no speaker, 
and could not volunteer to spin out the time until 
the arrival of the colonel—and the magnate upon 
whom he had relied to do this for him had been 
taken ill and had just rung up to say he was unable 
to come. In these circumstances those on the plat- 


230 His Second Venture 

form earnestly besought Lady Caron herself to give 
them a few words, and Val, though she had nothing 
prepared, found herself facing a huge and some¬ 
what restive gathering, annoyed because they were 
beginning late. The chairman made matters no 
better by the fact that he was nervous before what 
he looked upon as signs that the meeting intended 
to be rowdy. He hummed and hawed, and there 
were a good many interruptions and some ribald 
comment. He was very red in the face when he sat 
down, and the eyes he turned to Val were imploring. 
“I oughtn’t to ask a lady to stand up to such a lot,” 
he said unhappily, “but what can we do?” 

“We’ll see what we can do,” replied her ladyship 
with a smile. She stood up forthwith, and the sight 
of her was so pleasing to the eye that there was a 
round of applause to start off with. 

“Your chairman,” said she, “thinks that you have 
come here this afternoon to speak your minds. I 
hope you have. I want to help you to make up 
your minds, and then all you’ve got to do is to tell 
us what you’ve decided. You are men—Martershire 
men—I hardly think I need ask you to give me a 
fair hearing.”—(Cries of “We’ll listen to you, 
missie!”)—“Yes, I want you to listen to me be¬ 
cause this is not going to be an electioneering speech. 
My husband will be here the moment he can get 
away from the meeting he is now addressing, and 
he’ll tell you himself what principles he’s out for, 
much better than I can. I’m going to fill in a few 
moments till he comes, by telling you the kind of 


Electioneering 231 

man we are asking you to vote for. Carfrae Caron 
was born in this constituency, and so were his father 
and his father’s father, back for many generations. 
Martershire is in his blood, and in his bones. He’s 
one of yourselves, nourished like you from the soil of 
this dear old county. Do you remember what 
Shakespeare said about the mettle of a man’s pas¬ 
ture? He meant the qualities that are in a man’s 
blood as a result of the meat and drink that have 
nourished him, Martershire pastures raised the 
corn and the cattle that went to the making of 
Carfrae Caron. And when he was a man, how did 
he show the mettle of his pasture? By leaving all 
that made life comfortable, and the home of his 
ancestors, and going forth, at the order of his Gov¬ 
ernment, to make a great discovery. He led a band 
of Englishmen into the heart of an untried desert. 
He bore their hardships, took their risks, was one 
of them while he shouldered the responsibility for 
their lives and their freedom. When things looked 
blackest, he not only kept up their courage, but he 
himself devised a way out of such difficulties as 
looked insurmountable. Let me tell you, for the 
next five minutes, how he extricated himself and 
his men from an almost hopeless situation.” 

She related the story of the eclipse and the use 
made of it by Caron, to a breathlessly attentive 
audience. When the rolling shouts and applause 
died down she was still on her feet, and evidently 
wanted to say a last word. She was smiling with a 
touch of mischief. 


232 His Second Venture 

“I’ve told you not only what Sir Carfrae can do, 
but what he actually did do. His men trusted him, 
and he saw them through. Is it likely—is it possible 
—that his own brothers, the men of Martershire, 
won’t trust him? Electors of Lufton, my advice 
to you is this: Put your last shirt on Carfrae Caron! ,} 

That brought down the house; for Lufton’s main 
industry is shirt-making. Val took her seat in a 
tempest of approval which seemed to her as if it 
would never subside. Those words were destined 
to be the rallying cry for the election, and the room 
rang with them. Then, when the tumult began to 
die down, it suddenly rose once more to the pitch 
of enthusiasm; and, glancing round, she saw that 
her husband had just quietly taken the seat upon 
the other side of the chairman. 


CHAPTER XXV 


AN UNFORESEEN OUTBREAK 

S IR CARFRAE seemed in no hurry to quell the 
demonstrative welcome. He looked oddly pale, 
and it seemed to the solicitous chairman that he 
was not quite ready to speak. However, when at 
last, very deliberately, he laid down his notes, put 
his hands behind him with a gesture which was char¬ 
acteristic, and began, his voice was well under 
control. 

“Men of Martershire—brothers of the soil—my 
wife has told you, better than I could do if I took 
a week over it—what it means to men to have be¬ 
tween them such a bond as that which exists be¬ 
tween you and me to-day. But she has not told 
you, for she could not know, what is felt by a 
wanderer like myself upon his return. Six months 
ago I was lying in an African hospital, and nothing 
to me seemed less likely than that I should live to 
see another English June. When a man lies—as I 
have lain—upon what he believes to be his death¬ 
bed, he is apt to sort out in his mind the things 
that really matter from those that are less im¬ 
portant. In that exile and solitude I thought a 
great deal about England, and about this particular 
bit of England which to me is summed up in the 
233 


234 His Second Venture 

one magic name of Home; and I determined that, 
if I should be spared to set foot once again in my 
native county, I would do my level best to work for 
it, to stand by it and to help it by any means in 
my power. Let me tell you now how, if you do me 
the honour to elect me, I propose to set about it.” 

After that beginning you might, as the agents 
afterwards remarked, have heard a pin drop until 
the candidate had finished speaking; and the shouts 
rose mightily when at last he took his seat, after 
an address closely reasoned, well put together, and 
full of that personal knowledge of his hearers and 
their needs which is always respected by the na¬ 
tive. 

“We’ll send you to Westminster, right enough 1” 
they told him; and later, as he was leaving the 
platform, after some brisk heckling, they broke from 
their seats and surged all about him. Then, as 
he handed down Valery there was another call of 
“Three more for her ladyship!” and she turned to 
nod and smile at them, and further, to their delight, 
to kiss her hand in response to their assurances 
that they were “putting their shirts on Sir Car- 
frae.” 

“Do let us drive you back, Mr. Dickson,” said 
Lady Caron cordially, leaning forward in the car, 
as the agent who had organised the meeting seemed 
inclined to shut them in and himself remain outside. 

“Afraid I can’t get away, not yet awhile, your 
ladyship,” he replied, “thanking you all the same. 


An Unforeseen Outbreak 235 

Great speech indeed—great speech! You’ll allow 
me to congratulate you! One of the best meetings 
we’ve had.” 

They were driving off alone together—the thing 
she dreaded. She knew—felt in every pulsing nerve, 
that the man beside her was in a state of such ten¬ 
sion that the least false move might precipitate— 
what? What was it that she feared? She could 
not have said, only she knew that she was afraid; 
so much so that her usual resolute supply of safe 
small talk had failed her completely. 

Caron sat forward, his head turned quite away 
from her, gazing out of the window, and returning 
the vociferous salutations of the crowd as they 
slowly drew clear of the town. 

Valery saw that they would soon be out in the 
open country—no longer observed—and a desperate 
need beset her to do something to fend off the 
moment she saw approaching. At last he turned, 
faced her, and showed to her a face unlike anything 
she had known before in him. The hardness was 
all gone. The eyes were full of light—each hand¬ 
some feature seemed to be, for the first time in their 
mutual acquaintance, given its due value by a new 
inner harmony which subtly altered all. 

“So,” he said, and even his voice had changed, 
“so, at last you break silence—at last I have heard 
you speak-” 

The extremity of her need gave Valery an idea— 
inspired her with the safe and trivial topic that she 
craved. “Oh, don’t you think this car is insuffer- 



236 His Second Venture 

ably hot? What could have induced Baker to shut 
it up?” she cried, flinging back her wrap. “Please, 
Carfrae, stop him and tell Adney to get down and 
open the top.” 

He looked amazed % cruelly taken aback. “Hot? 
Are you too hot?” he repeated, almost vacantly. 
He passed his hand over his forehead. “It was 
drizzling, I think—that’s why they closed it-” 

“Oh, was it? But it’s quite fine now, and I feel 
perfectly stifled. That hall was so close. Please 
let me have some air.” 

For a moment he made no answer. Then, with a 
start, he leaned forward and gave the order she 
desired. They came to a halt, Adney got down 
and rapidly threw open the car, letting in the rather 
watery sunshine. 

“It don’t look very settled, my lady,” he re¬ 
marked. 

“Oh, it won’t rain before we get home,” she re¬ 
turned optimistically. 

This matter adjusted, they continued their prog¬ 
ress. 

Carfrae had leaned back as if absorbed in thought, 
his eyes seemed to be gazing out into distance un¬ 
probed. Valery, breathing more freely now that 
they were no longer in any sense of the word private, 
sat up and looked relieved. Presently she heard his 
voice, low and unlike his usual tones: 

“What made you speak of me as you did? I 
heard—almost all.” 

“What made me do it?” she asked stiffly. “I 



An Unforeseen Outbreak 237 

was merely observing my half of our bargain. I 
undertook to help you by any means in my power; 
did I not?” 

It seemed to her as if the radiance died out of 
his face, which set back into its usual lines. “Is 
that all?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” 

“Only you spell your ‘don’t’ with a ‘w.’ ” 

“Sometimes it is better spelt that way,” she re¬ 
plied dryly. “But do let me tell you how well I 
thought you took up your hecklers. There were 
some there who hoped to make serious trouble, but 
you were ready for them.” 

He made an odd sound. “I felt equal to any¬ 
thing at that moment—I had the strength of half a 
dozen,” he said. “But now—this evening, at Smeth- 
ling—I shall be like a pricked bubble.” 

“Oh, you mustn’t give way like that. Remember, 
k will be all over next week. You’ve simply got to 
keep going until then. Say to yourself that it’s got 
to be done!” 

“What does it matter? I don’t want to be in 
Parliament,” he muttered. 

“You are overtired. We ought to have stopped 
in the town and got you some tea. Surely General 
Beaton gave you a good lunch?” 

“Lunch? Oh, yes, yes, of course. I had plenty 
of lunch. I don’t want anything at all . . . except 
what I can’t have.” 

“Most people are like that, I think,” replied 
Valery coldly. “Who is that man, I wonder? Is 


238 His Second Venture 

he one of your future constituents? He evidently 
wants a good look at you!” 

As she spoke the car slipped past a man who was 
walking at the roadside as if on his way from the 
meeting, and who, on hearing the horn, had stopped, 
turned, and stared hard at them as they drove by. 

Caron saluted involuntarily as his eye met that of 
the wayfarer, who raised his hat with a half smile. 
He was well though quietly dressed, and looked like 
one who dwells in the country and goes up to town 
every day. 

When he had been left some way behind Caron 
leaned forward and spoke to Adney: “Did you 
note that fellow?” 

“Yes, Sir Carfrae. I’ve just been asking Baker 
if he knows him by sight. He says he’s quite a 
stranger to him.” 

“Thought I’d seen him before somewhere,” said 
Caron in a puzzled voice. 

“I think I’ll get off in Marterstead and go and 
describe him to the police as near as I can. He was 
on foot—he won’t get far.” 

“Oh, I don’t think you need worry to do that.” 

“Better do it, Sir Carfrae, by your leave.” 

“Be on the safe side,” said Valery hurriedly. 

“Oh, why?” he asked in a voice whose icy sneer 
could hardly belong to the man who a minute ago 
had said: “At last I have heard you speak!” 

“Why? Because we are out to win this elec¬ 
tion,” she returned at once, “and nobody is going 
to stop us.” 


An Unforeseen Outbreak 239 

When they reached home she said to the maid 
who came to the door that she was very tired and 
would have tea taken up to her own sitting-room, 
whither she at once repaired. 

She felt that the thin ice had been skated over, 
the danger point passed for the moment; but she 
wished for no further opportunities. It was the 
first time that Carfrae had even allowed her to see 
that it was not easy for him to hold to the conditions 
she had imposed. She felt angry, but fairly sure 
that upon reflection he would realise that he had 
made a mistake. 

She went into her bedroom, rang for her maid, 
and changed into a rest-gown, by which time her 
tea was awaiting her. 

Slowly she emerged from the inner room, closed 
the communicating door, and went to the deep, 
well-cushioned couch which stood near the window 
of her study. The room faced south, and the sun 
streamed in through the western side of the Georgian 
bow window. Outside lay the gardens in their early 
summer beauty. Spring had been tardy, and the 
season had come to perfection with a rush, so that 
crimson hawthorn, golden laburnum and the ex¬ 
quisite faint purple and white of the lilac were 
mingled; while farther off, beyond the garden, the 
smother of the apple blossom in the orchard sup¬ 
plied a kind of bridal hilarity. The rain feared by 
Adney had rolled away in a purple mass of cloud, 
leaving all the world aglitter. Blackbirds and 


240 His Second Venture 

thrushes supplied minstrelsy to the banquet of 
beauty. 

The big business-like writing table was piled high 
with election correspondence and political pam¬ 
phlets. Lyndsay and Val between them performed 
for the candidate all the work of a private secre¬ 
tary, and did it very well. Various neatly typed 
letters, duly signed by Caron, were lying upon the 
blotting-pad awaiting dispatch. 

But first, after her exertions, her ladyship needed 
some tea. Here in this room she was safe from 
intrusion, and she snuggled down among her cush¬ 
ions, feet curled under her, trying to soothe her 
disturbed spirits by gazing upon the tender beauty 
of the sunset world. 

Kirdles would be upstairs shortly. She had not 
been able—most unfortunately—to get away that 
afternoon to the meeting. She had not known that 
Valery was likely to speak, any more than Val her¬ 
self had foreseen it. She would be very eager to 
hear all that had taken place, and would be certain- 
to hurry to her child as soon as she had poured out 
tea for Carfrae and Lyndsay in the drawing-room. 

Having quenched her thirst and enjoyed her 
savoury sandwiches, Val laid down her cheek upon 
the satin cushion, and awaited her in a queer blend 
of physical luxury and spiritual restlessness. 

“Come in, old thing,” she muttered drowsily as 
the tiny brass knocker on the sacred door was 
tapped. Lazily she half turned, so that she could 


An Unforeseen Outbreak 241 

extend both arms. “Come and be hugged, old 
darling. Where have you been this age?” 

The dead silence that ensued caused her to sit 
suddenly bolt upright. Across the tea-table stood 
Carfrae, and he was gazing upon her in a silence so 
eloquent as to be almost terrifying. In one sec¬ 
ond she had changed from the loving, unaffected 
girl to the hard, cynical woman. 

Instantly her feet were on the floor, her draperies 
straightened, her figure drawn up. She was on the 
brink of an angry inquiry as to what right he had 
to intrude upon a privacy he had promised to re¬ 
spect; but as the words leapt to her lips she re¬ 
jected them. It was undignified to be angry; per¬ 
haps a little ridiculous, too. After all, this was a 
sitting-room, and he had knocked before entering. 

As he evidently left it to her to sound the opening 
note, she presently asked stiffly: “Do you want 
anything?’’ 

“I am sorry I have evidently disturbed you. I 
came up because Kirby has visitors down there, and 
I have just received this note, which should by rights 
have been addressed to you.” 

She rose, took a note from his hand, and made a 
slight gesture. 

“Please sit down.” 

“You permit?” His face was grave, but his 
voice had an edge of sarcasm. 

She paid no attention to that, but took the note 
from the envelope and read. It was from the Miss 
La Placis, and it said that they were proposing to 


242 His Second Venture 

leave the Dairy Lodge for a month’s stay in two 
days’ time. They felt very sad because, owing to 
Sir Carfrae’s numerous engagements, they had not 
had the pleasure of seeing him; but they begged to 
know if he could possibly bring Lady Caron and 
come to tea the following afternoon? If he could 
only spare them one little hour it would be some¬ 
thing. 

Valery glanced up from her reading. Carfrae 
had not accepted her none too cordial an invita¬ 
tion to be seated. He was standing in the window, 
gazing down upon the lawn. 

“Well,” said she, “can you do as they ask?” 

“Not tea, certainly. I have a meeting at Redford. 
But if you agree, we might stroll down their way 
about six and pay our respects just for a few min¬ 
utes. The six o’clock meeting to-morrow at Mar- 
ners Green is off.” After a just perceptible pause 
he added: “This is all so familiar to me. This 
was my nursery when I was a kid.” 

“So I think I have heard. The room was not in 
use when I came. That was why I chose it. Is that 
all you came to say?” 

He turned from the window and looked steadily 
at her. Her long straight gown of mist-grey satin 
was looped on the left hip with a big silver clasp. 
She wore a string of uncut turquoise beads that hung 
below her waist. Against the background of the 
white enamel of the window panelling she showed 
with somewhat the effect of an oil-painting. Her 
splendid youth and vitality, the warm tints of her 


An Unforeseen Outbreak 243 

complexion and the glinting brown of her hair 
seemed to tell out against the neutral tones, vivid and 
glowing. Her proportions, always rather Juno- 
esque than nymph-like, were now almost perfect, 
though in the last three months she had grown thin¬ 
ner than she was when he first came home. As his 
eyes rested on her the words of Othello floated to 
his mind : 

“One whose hand, 

Like the base Indians, threw a pearl away 
Richer than all his tribe.” 

Could this wintry queen be the same creature as 
the coaxing child who a minute ago was curled up 
like a dormouse among her cushions, and who had 
invited her visitor to “come and be hugged”? 

“No,” he said, speaking with a nervousness which 
he could not hide, “it is not all. I have something 
else to say. I came also to—er—to ask you to waive 
for a few minutes one article of our unwritten agree¬ 
ment. It was stipulated that the past should not be 
referred to between us, except by mutual consent. 
I ask you to let me refer to it for—er—perhaps 
ten minutes?” 

“It is better for me to refuse,” she replied stonily. 
“No good object can be served by discussing it; and 
just now you need all your attention—all your en¬ 
ergies—for your political work.” 

He paused. “You refuse, then?” 

“I must refuse.” 

“Good. I will speak, then,” he went on un¬ 
daunted, “not of the past, but of the future. You 


244 His Second Venture 

laid no embargo upon that. I wish to know—are 
there any conditions—any circumstances—in which 
you would be willing—might possibly be willing—to 
reconsider your determination to repudiate your 
marriage vows?” 

Her voice as she replied was level and quiet: 
“There are no circumstances that I know of, and 
no conditions that I can foresee, which could make 
me change my mind.” 

“Am I permitted to ask you to give your rea¬ 
sons?” 

“I think you know them very well; and this talk 
is worse than useless. . . .” She bit her lip to hold 
back tears. “Is it fair?” cried she, more impetu¬ 
ously. “Am I not already doing enough for you? 
No, I am not going to throw it in your teeth, but I 
do ask you to have some consideration for me! 
Though you have no idea what it is costing me to 
be here, you surely must perceive something of the 
difficulty of my position. Don’t drive me into a 
corner.” 

He made a movement as though he would have 
approached her, then turned and moved away 
through the room, hands behind him; flinging a look 
at the books, the mezzotints, the few bits of pot¬ 
tery, the flowers, the girlish collection of college 
groups. 

“How pretty you have made it!” he said, more 
to himself than to her. 

She took the chance of his attention being else¬ 
where to apply her handkerchief to eyes that were 


An Unforeseen Outbreak 245 

perilously full. “I am glad you think so. And now, 
if you have said what you wished to say, will you 
go away? I have work to do before I can dress 
for dinner.’’ 

He came to a standstill in the centre of the room. 
“Oh, but I haven’t nearly said what I came to say. 
The questions I have put to you so far have been 
to clear the ground. Let us be definite as to the 
point that we have reached, because it’s important. 
,You and I have been in the house together now 
for three months. I have kept our pact during all 
that time. This afternoon—listening to you, hear¬ 
ing what you said—there dawned in me a dim sort 
of hope that you had perhaps begun to see more 
clearly, were entering into my side of the question, 
would be willing, not only to be a figure-head, but 
to let me talk to you, to try to know me a bit bet¬ 
ter. ... You tell me that that is not so? Your 
attitude now is just what it was when you first came 
back from Grendon?” 

She said: “It is the same. I have not changed.” 

“And there is, humanly speaking, no hope of your 
changing?” 

He spoke sharply, eagerly, making a stride in her 
direction. 

“As far as I can tell, there is no hope of my 
changing.” 

He waited, as if to give her a chance to say more. 
As she did not speak, “That is—your—last word?” 
he slowly demanded. She was very pale, but she 
signed assent. 


246 His Second Venture 

“Very well. That being so, I will proceed to say 
what I came to say, but would not utter until you 
had cut away all hope from me. I hereby dissolve 
our pact—the temporary pact we made. You must 
go. It is all over. From to-day we separate. You 
go your way, I go mine. Be anywhere you choose, 
but not in my house. I cannot have you here.” 

His totally unexpected words whipped the colour 
into her face as a slap might have done. She lit¬ 
erally gasped with the surprise of them. 

“Are you mad? You can’t realise what you are 
saying.” 

“I know only too well. I’m confessing failure. 
I thought I could go through with this preposterous 
scheme, and I find I can’t. That’s all. It must end.” 

Val’s blazing indignation drove nervousness from 
her mind. She spoke very quietly because she was 
at white heat. 

“So you think you can play this trick on me a 
third time? Let me inform you that you cannot, 
for I will not consent. You took me once, used me 
to satisfy your grudge against my mother, and flung 
me away like yesterday’s newspaper. You came 
back when you chose, annexed me once more, and 
actually persuaded me into serving your purpose a 
second time! But that was the last. Do you under¬ 
stand? You shall not do it again. You have en¬ 
tered into this arrangement, and you must hold to 
it until I choose to release you from the bargain. 
Oh!”—momentarily the flames shot high—“I 
should think no self-respecting Englishwoman of the 


An Unforeseen Outbreak 247 

twentieth century was ever treated as you treat me 1 
But there’s a limit, and beyond it you shall not go.” 

“Valery, you don’t understand; let me explain.” 

“Can you assert,” she pursued, “that I haven’t 
kept my word? Have I come short of what I prom¬ 
ised?” 

“No, no. It’s I, not you, who have come short. 
I undertook what I’m not strong enough to see 
through. I set out to live in the same house with 
you, without making any effort to change the terms 
on which we stand, and I find I can’t do it. I thought 
it only honest to tell you this; but it seems you 
persistently misunderstand me. . . He seemed 
to choke down feeling, and went on: “Ggd forbid 
that I should do anything that seems like treating 
you badly. If that’s the way you take it, why, then, 
the farce must go on. But the thing’s obsessing 
me. I’m losing my mental perspective. I can see 
nothing clearly because you dazzle my eyes.” 

“That’s simply nonsense. You have only to make 
up your mind not to think about me. Surely you 
have enough matters of importance upon your 
shoulders, at least for the next week or so, to pre¬ 
vent your brooding over a matter of sentiment?” 

He made no reply. With shoulders hunched and 
arms folded, he was gazing out moodily over the 
garden. Val’s anger died. He looked so brow¬ 
beaten that she felt she must have succeeded in 
impressing upon him the hopelessness of his advance. 

“Come, Carfrae,” said she, rather like a school¬ 
mistress forgiving a froward pupil, “pull yourself 


248 His Second Venture 

together. You’re a bit run down this afternoon, 
and you made things worse by coming in here, where 
you have no right to be. Let’s forget it. Make up 
your mind that whatever happens we are going 
through with this election. As soon as you are safely 
returned we can separate as speedily as you choose. 
But the one thing you must not—shall not—do is 
to let down Lyndsay and me at this crisis.” 

He unfolded his arms and turned to face her. 
There was not a yard between them as they stood. 
“And suppose I own,” he muttered slowly, “that 
I won’t be answerable for myself, that I feel I might 
lose my head—and-” 

She gave a little laugh, almost snapping her fin¬ 
gers, as she turned scornfully away from him and 
went to the writing-table. 

“Make yourself quite easy on that score. There’s 
not an ounce of sentiment in me from head to heel, 
and I assure you that I am perfectly able to take 
care of myself.” 

She gathered up the loose letters and turned to 
the door. “I have run short of envelopes, and I am 
going to find Lyn and ask him for some more,” said 
she calmly, “so you’ll excuse me. Don’t come here 
again, please.” 

As she reached the door it was opened from with¬ 
out by Miss Kirby, who was entering hurriedly, and 
could not control a start when she saw the colonel. 
“Oh! are you busy, Val?” She turned to go, but 
Val, smiling, held her by the arm while Carfrae 
walked slowly out, feeling within him such a clash 



An Unforeseen Outbreak 249 

of rage, mortification, passion and hurt pride as he 
had never thought to experience at the hands of any 
woman. 

“My dear,” said Kirdles when he had gone, “I 
thought he never came up here.” 

“This is the first time, and I think it will be the 
last,” said Val flippantly. “What do you think he 
came for? To give me notice!” 

“What are you talking about— notice ?” 

“Notice to quit. Yes. He said he had had 
enough of it, and he was going to chuck his election 
and everything, if only he could get me out of the 
house.” 

“Val! What did you say?” 

“I told him there was nothing doing. He brought 
me here, and here I shall stay until after this 
election. Then I’ll be off as soon and as far as he 
likes. But he isn’t going to let us down at this stage 
of the proceedings.” She surveyed the staring, be¬ 
wildered Kirdles with a wicked twinkle in her eyes. 
“Do you know, old thing, I am really beginning to 
enjoy myself!” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE DAY AFTER 

O PEN house was kept at Archwood during these 
hectic weeks, for people dropped in from all 
over the country to every kind of meal—agents, 
delegates, squires of small villages eager to arrange 
meetings, enthusiastic ladies with questionnaires 
(blessed word), and a sprinkling of personal friends 
who were organising the canvassing.' 

Valery, in radiant summer frocks, had to preside 
over very motley luncheon tables, and on the day 
after the Lufton meeting they sat down a party of 
fifteen. Sir George Bowyer had come because he 
really couldn’t keep away, so delighted was he with 
Lady Caron and so anxious that she should know 
something of the sensation caused by her speech in 
the big town full of factories and celebrated for its 
disorderly meetings. Hugh Hatherlegh was there 
by invitation, having come to help Lyndsay with 
various jobs. 

Val was paid so many compliments that at last 
Carfrae looked up from what he was saying at the 
other end of the long table and called out: 

“Bowyer, enough said. You are turning my 
wife’s head.” 

“Ha, ha! Not very easy to do that, Caron; she 
has the most level head of any woman I’ve met! 
250 


The Day After 251 

Seriously, old chap, I hope you realise that if you 
get in it’ll be largely because she’s boosted you in 
with that silver tongue of hers.” 

“Yes, yes, you are free to talk to her in that style, 
because you haven’t got to manage her after the 
election’s over. When her head’s completely turned, 
what am I going to do with her?” 

“Turn me out to grass,” said Val impertinently. 
“I shall want a good holiday, and so will you.” 

“Lucky man!” cried Sir George. “Where shall 
you take him, Lady Caron?” 

“Oh, he won’t want the task of keeping me in 
order. As he says, I shall be a bit difficult to handle 
after all your injudicious flattery! A little solitude 
will cool me down a bit.” 

“Solitude a deux —eh?” cried Sir George, laugh* 
ing delightedly. “I see, you’re going away where 
nobody can find you; that’s the idea?” 

Caron’s voice again sounded clearly down the 
table: “Some unsuspected isle in the far seas,” he 
quoted. 

“Doesn’t that sound attractive this weather to 
your ladyship?” teased Sir George. 

“Domesticity is never attractive to me, Sir 
George. I belong to my own day and generation. 
I’ve never been really broken to double harness, so 
it’s fortunate that my husband is so little at home, 
isn’t it?” said the girl, with a mischief in eye and 
voice which quite reassured her old friend as to the 
fact that she was not speaking seriously. 

“Well,” he said, “folks have much to say in 


252 His Second Venture 

praise of modern marriage under the new con¬ 
ditions; but somehow I don’t think it wears as well 
as the old kind-” 

“In which the woman’s affection was blind, like 
a dog’s, so that she would trot meekly after her 
man, however poor a sort he was, admiring him and 
hanging upon his pleasure-” 

“Just because he was her man,” returned Sir 
George. “Ah, yes, my dear young lady, say what 
you like, that is the kind of affection all we poor 
fellows stand in need of. We have a nervous sus¬ 
picion that unless our wives loved us blindly they 
probably wouldn’t love us at all. An admiring wife 
is often the sole buttress of a mediocre man’s self¬ 
esteem. Without it he would never get anywhere.” 

The discussion had to be broken off short, because 
the inexorable clock pointed to a quarter past two, 
and the car was throbbing in the drive, ready to 
carry off the gentlemen to the next meeting. 

“You’re coming, too, Lady Caron?” cried various 
voices. 

“No, I’ve got an afternoon off to-day,” she re¬ 
plied, “and I’m going to sit in the garden and laze 
for a couple of hours.” 

Carfrae came round the table to her. “I shall 
be back by five,” said he, and as he spoke he laid 
his hand very deliberately and very firmly on her 
shoulder. She could not shake it off in front of 
everybody. “Keep a cup of tea for me,” he bade 
her, “and afterwards I think you promised to stroll 
down the park to call on our tenants, did you not?” 




The Day After 253 

“Did I? Oh, well, perhaps I may, if it isn’t too 
hot,” she replied, not looking at him. And slipping 
free from his touch, she ran to shake hands with the 
various departing guests. 

She just got the chance of a whisper aside to 
Adney before the cars went off, to inquire whether 
the man they saw the previous day had been iden¬ 
tified. Adney smiled reassuringly. 

“Oh, yes, that wasn’t anything at all,” said he. 
“Nothing, only the way he looked at us made me 
notice him. We’re safe enough, ma’am. Don’t 
you worry. Not so easy as what they thought it 
was, to trail about after a man like him over here 
in England.” 

Val laughed, much relieved, and went off to give 
orders that tea was not to be served till five; also 
to warn Kirdles to be on hand. 

“I had just begun to think that the chaperoning 
was superfluous,” she remarked grimly, “but I find 
I was mistaken. You sit tight, old thing, and see 
he doesn’t leave the rails.” 

“Until yesterday he has behaved beautifully, 
Val.” There was implied reproach in the tones. 

“Oh, of course, you are going over to his side. 
To a woman your age no man as handsome as Car- 
frae could ever be wrong.” 

“Oh, Val, how can you?” 

Val laughed teasingly and settled herself in the 
hammock. The hush of afternoon was over all 
things, and she gave herself up to the delicious lan¬ 
guor of indolence with a book. 


254 His Second Venture 

It was about a quarter to five when she looked 
up to see Caron striding towards her across the lawn. 
He was too soon. Kirdles, base traitor, had not 
come on duty! 

He looked somehow different from yesterday, as 
though his mood had changed completely. His eyes 
met hers no longer with an appeal, but with some¬ 
thing more like a challenge. 

“You look comfy.” He flung himself down in a 
deck-chair and passed a handkerchief over his brow. 

“I hope youVe forgiven and forgotten my out¬ 
break yesterday,” said he lightly. “One gets a bit 
overstrained with all this rushing about and talking. 
It shan’t occur again. I’ve had a tophole meeting 
this afternoon. Lady Sandcastle was there. What 
a pretty woman! And can’t she give the glad eye!” 
He smiled in appreciative reminiscence. “They are 
going off after Ascot to Norway. I rather think 
I shall go with them. Scandinavia sounds good to 
me after the Sahara.” 

“Excellent scheme,” said Val, showing no sur¬ 
prise, though it is certain that she felt some. She 
slipped out of the hammock and poured tea for him, 
he chatting lightly the while of Lady Sandcastle 
and her toy Poms and her new car and so on. 

“She’s taking me all round their district to¬ 
morrow, canvassing. Ought to make an impression, 
oughtn’t it?” 

Kirdles appeared in a few minutes’ time, and 
ousted Val from the tea-tray. “Eat your own tea, 


The Day After 255 

child, for you haven’t much time if you are going 
down to Dairy Lodge first,” said she. 

“Why, what’s Val doing this evening?” Carfrae 
wanted to know. 

“They rang up from Great Lanefield to ask if 
she could possibly motor over there for a small 
meeting in the vicarage at seven o’clock.” 

“Did they? When? They wrote this morning 
to say the thing couldn’t be arranged.” 

“Well, they seem to have read about yesterday’s 
meeting in the papers, and they called me this after¬ 
noon, since you left,” replied Val. “I said I’d go. 
Never miss a chance.” 

“You are a brick,” commented her husband 
gratefully. 

“But since you promised the old ladies to go 
down for a few minutes, you had better keep your 
word,” advised Kirdles. “Don’t forget to thank 
them, Sir Carfrae, for all they have done. They 
have canvassed patiently, day after day, in their 
tiny pony-trap.” 

“Yes,” laughed Val. “I shall never forget their 
offence when I innocently asked them if they were 
naturalised. They were both born in England, they 
tell me. Odd that they still speak the language so 
imperfectly.” 

She picked up and carelessly pulled on a hat which 
Caron thought one of the most provocative things 
he had ever seen. She knelt before Kirdles to have 
it set straight. “There you are! Don’t stay too 
long,” said the good woman fondly. “I am going 


256 His Second Venture 

with you to Great Lanefield, and I’ll be ready and 
waiting at twenty minutes to seven.” 

“Very good. Won’t take more than fifteen 
minutes at the outside to get there. Come along, 
Carfrae,” said Val with would-be nonchalance, 
taking up gloves and a sunshade, neither of which 
she intended to use. 

Carfrae rose and came to her side, and as they 
walked off he began a humorous anecdote about a 
heckler at his late meeting. As they passed out of 
sight of Kirdles the girl was suddenly and furiously 
aware that her heart was beating in great heavy 
strokes, for no reason at all except that he and she 
were walking through the summer evening together. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE SECRET ROOM 

D URING the brief walk through the paddock 
Caron maintained, apparently without effort, 
the detached and buoyant manner which he had 
acquired since the previous day. He made it clear 
that, whichever way the election went, he meant to 
go away as soon as practicable for a holiday, during 
which his wife would be “off duty” and might amuse 
herself as she pleased. For the first time in the 
whole of their acquaintance he was exerting himself 
to make friends, and doing his utmost to talk and 
behave as though no gulf yawned between them. 

Determined though she was to permit no friend¬ 
ship, and try as she might to harden her heart, 
Valery was both touched and impressed by the way 
in which he had accepted her rebuff, and his evident 
resolve to do all he could to make her forget his 
lapse of the previous day. 

She was as responsive as she could contrive to be 
without changing her whole attitude. 

The little parlour at Dairy Lodge was sweet with 
roses, and the old ladies extended to their visitors 
that courtly welcome which always made it seem as 
if they conferred a favour upon all who came. They 
had a great deal to say, and many inquiries to make 
257 


258 His Second Venture 

concerning the election and their own hopes of 
having contributed, however slightly, to a satisfac¬ 
tory result. 

With their confidential maid, an elderly Spanish 
woman called Caterina, in attendance, they escorted 
their landlord over the cottage and displayed to him 
the various labour-saving devices by means of which 
they had been made so comfortable. Everything 
was in the neatest order, upstairs and down. 

“Well,” said Caron, as they returned to the 
sitting-room with its huge fireplace, “now I have 
seen everything but the secret chamber.” 

This remark set the two old ladies lamenting in 
chorus. They had been promising themselves such 
pleasure in displaying it, and to their vexation they 
had mislaid the key. 

“Everywhere ve seek but cannot find; and ve 
leave dis very evening for London on our vay to 
Brighton, so that ve have no more chance for long 
time to show off our celebrated secret room.” 

“I never knew there was a key,” said Valery. “I 
thought the thing fastened with a catch.” 

“So it do. Ve nevaire lock it ourselves. But a 
fool of a builder’s man, ’e go in to see if dere was a 
hole in de roof. ’E say ’e put de key on de table, 
but nobody ’ave seen it.” 

Caron, who was by no means consumed with 
anxiety to inspect the hidey-hole, cut short the pro¬ 
fuse apologies by looking at his watch, mentioning 
his wife’s appointment, and taking leave forthwith, 
courteously but with dispatch. 


The Secret Room 259 

Val noticed his alacrity with inner discomfort. 
She told herself that she by no means shared his 
evident desire for a longer tete-a-tete . 

As they emerged from the garden gate and found 
themselves once more in the paddock, his expression 
denoted keen satisfaction. 

“No need for haste, Val. We’ve got off sooner 
than I feared would be possible.” 

“Yes, but I wish you had seen that carving. I 
think it must have been done by some fugitive who 
was once hiding there. What a county for history 
Martershire is, isn’t it?” 

“Think it’s an interesting county?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Almost a pity to be leaving it, isn’t it?” 

“Some things are matters of necessity, not 
choice,” she murmured, going on rapidly to a dif¬ 
ferent theme. “What odd creatures those old La 
Placis are! There was hardly a trace of human 
occupation in that house from top to bottom.” 

“Well, they are just setting out on a journey, you 
know, and leaving it for a month or two. Besides, 
I don’t suppose they ever do very much to clutter 
the place up—a little fancy work, or a game of, 
cribbage. Hallo! Someone calling?” 

They faced about and descried the stout Caterina 
pursuing them, her face crimson with exertion, but 
wreathed in smiles as she held aloft a key. 

As soon as she was within hearing distance she 
panted out the news that the elder Miss La Placi, 
on her way back from seeing them off, was crossing 


260 His Second Venture 

the lawn to the sitting-room window when she set 
her foot upon something in the grass; and there, 
behold! was the missing key, which must have been 
shaken out of the table-cover upon the lawn! 

They would not on any account make her ladyship 
late for her appointment, but would Sir Carfrae be' 
so very kind as to step back for a couple of minutes, 
just to please the ladies. He would catch up her 
ladyship before she reached the house. 

Caron, in the candidate’s frame of mind, in which 
you always do as you are asked, however little you 
may wish to do it, assented. “I won’t be a minute, 
Val—don’t wait for me—go right on,” he said; and 
walked reluctantly off, the elderly Caterina trotting 
at his side, beaming and grateful. 

Val stood a minute to watch them go, then, facing 
about once more, she strolled slowly along home¬ 
wards, trying to force her mind to the consideration 
of what should be the main points of the speech she 
was about to make at Great Lanefield. 

Oddly enough, her thoughts would return to the 
situation between herself and Carfrae; to his 
changed tactics. She thought she preferred the chal¬ 
lenging opponent to the desperate wooer. The clash 
of wills was stimulating. It seemed to have put new 
spirit into her. She felt that evening less unhappy, 
less resentful, more interested in life than at any 
time since Carfrae’s return. . . . 

Her thought conjured up a memory of his face 
as it had looked when, in the car the day before, he 
had turned it to her ... its eloquence ... he 


The Secret Room 261 

could look like that . . . she had power to call up 
such a look. 

Then, as if suggested by some influence outside 
herself, there flashed upon her mind a picture of 
the face of the man whom, soon after that poignant 
moment, they had passed in the road. Something 
in his expression had made her uneasy, though she 
could not have explained why. Happily, Adney was 
completely reassured concerning him. 

This thought brought another in its train. Where 
was Adney now? Was he on the watch as usual? 
She had not seen him anywhere about. All had 
of late been so serene that insensibly vigilance had 
been somewhat relaxed. In his own grounds, Car- 
frae was presumably quite safe, but . . . 

She glanced about her at the wide sweep of sloping 
pasture, rich golden-green in the sunset; the cows 
lazily chewing, the flight of rooks against a golden 
sky, the solitude and peace of everything. 

Suddenly she stood quite still. 

Carfrae was alone—he was out of her sight. 
There had hardly been a moment since his return 
during which he had been out of sight of herself, 
Lyndsay, or Adney, except in his own house. 

She felt certain afterwards that nothing was 
farther from her thought at this juncture than any 
idea of treachery connected with the La Placis. She 
was moved by an impulse too obscure to be called 
a purpose; but it was borne in upon her that she had 
better go back and wait for Carfrae. It would be 
less awful to miss her appointment than that any- 


262 His Second Venture 

thing . . . She would not specify; yet for a long 
moment she wavered, because it was very possible 
that Carfrae might misconstrue her return. In spite 
of the reluctance which this thought inspired, she 
nevertheless began to retrace her steps. 

She did not hurry. She walked in the sauntering, 
leisurely fashion of one who expects that the person 
waited for may at any moment come into sight. 

She covered, however, the whole distance back 
to Dairy Lodge without his appearing. As she 
approached, she could hear the humming of a motor, 
stationary in the lane outside the park gates. The 
house, blocking out her view of the bit of lane 
where this car was standing, prevented her from 
seeing it. She was not conscious of taking any 
particular notice of the fact that it was there, or 
of wondering why: she was merely subconsciously 
aware of its presence. Passing into the lodge gar* 
den by the little white gate, she walked up to the 
front door, which, to her surprise, was closed. 
Usually it stood hospitably open, showing the small 
porch and an inner white door. She tried the handle 
and found it locked. 

This struck her as extremely odd. Carfrae had 
entered the house not ten minutes before, and must 
be coming out again very shortly. 

Without a second’s delay she turned to the left 
and ran round the house until she came to the 
window of the sitting-room, which opened to the 
ground. It still stood open, but as she advanced a 
hand was placed upon it from within to close it. 


The Secret Room 263 

“Stop!” she cried, running swiftly forward. 

It was Caterina who stood by the window, and as 
her eyes fell upon Valery she looked quite startled. 
Glancing back over her shoulder at someone inside 
the room she said hurriedly in English, “It is Lady. 
Caron come back-” 

Val pushed past her into the pretty room she 
had so lately quitted. The only sign of Carfrae was 
his hat, which lay upon the table; but there were 
three persons present, all strangers to her—two 
ladies, who seemed to have just arrived, and a man 
who sat in the shadow of the ingle-nook. 

One lady was standing near him, engaged in talk: 
Her back was turned to Valery, and she wore a 
light-coloured, loudly patterned motoring coat and 
a tomato-coloured toque over yellow hair. The 
other, at the far end of the room, was occupied in 
adjusting a blue veil over a blue toque, and was clad 
in a long coat of the same shade of royal blue. 

Val concluded that they had just come to pay a 
call, and must have arrived in the car which she had 
heard in the lane. 

“Please, Caterina,” said she, bowing slightly in 
their direction, “I have come back to a pick up Sir 
Carfrae—where is he?” 

“Sir Carfrae ’e ’ave gone, meladi-” 

“Oh, nonsense, I should have seen him—and he 
can’t have gone without his hat.” 

“To ze stables, meladi,” stammered Caterina. 
“ ’E say ’e ’ave not seen ze garage. Miss La Placi 
take ’eem that way—weel you go find ’eem, meladi?” 




264 His Second Venture 

“Oh, thank you,” said Val, with a sigh of relief 
which showed her how sharp her momentary anxiety 
had been. This was simple enough. Unexpected 
visitors had arrived, and the old ladies were still 
occupied with their honoured guest. She took up the 
hat from the table. “Did Sir Carfrae look into the 
secret room?” she asked. 

“Oh, yes, meladi, ’e did.” 

“Then I’ll take his hat to him, and I needn’t come 
back.” She turned, with a smile and a slight apol¬ 
ogy, to hasten out by the window which Caterina 
most politely held open for her. 

Something in the woman’s air—her obvious satis¬ 
faction—her little smirk of triumph—caused Lady 
Caron to pause in the very act of leaving the room. 
She turned abruptly, unexpectedly, to look behind 
her. 

The man in the ingle-nook was leaning forward 
intently to watch her go. The light fell upon his 
face. It was the man whom yesterday she had 
passed in the road. 

Valery was not conscious that her mind acted at 
all. So far as she had any theory about it, she 
supposed the three persons in the room to be visitors 
just arrived on the scene—a fact which her having 
seen one of them fifteen miles away the day before 
in no way traversed; but something within her, 
which was not reason, came spontaneously into 
action, and without a word she darted back to the 
side of the fireplace and tried the door of the secret 
chamber. 


The Secret Room 265 

Her action was so swift and so unlooked-for that 
the man was taken off his guard and made the mis¬ 
take of catching her by the wrist. “What are you 
doing?” he asked angrily. 

Her look of astonished indignation caused him to 
let go as if the touch had burnt him. 

“Kindly open this door for me,” said she. 

“Ze key, ’e not ’ere,” said Caterina eagerly. 
“Mees La Placi she ’ave ’eem in ’er pocket—you 
ask ’er for ’eem, meladi.” 

Valery paused a minute in wretched indecision. 
The woman in blue, who had stood all this time at 
the mirror, suddenly spoke without turning round. 

“If you’re after the guy that just went out to the 
garage with Miss La Placi, you’ve got to shake a 
leg if you don’t want to miss him. He’s just off up 
that field in double-quick time.” 

She spoke with a marked American accent. 

“I don’t believe it,” said Valery in a low, fright¬ 
ened voice; “and I intend to look inside the secret 
room; so go at once, Caterina, and say to Miss La 
Placi that I want the key.” 

Caterina glanced from one face to the other, and 
then, as if in obedience to some unspoken bidding, 
slipped out into the garden. 

A great cold fear stole over Valery. She was 
conscious that the three people in the room were all 
standing as it were at attention—that they were 
watching her as cats watch a mouse. There was 
but one hope, and it was a very slender one. Just 
possibly the whistle might bring Adney, but she had 


266 His Second Venture 

.caught no glimpse of him, or of Baker, anywhere 
about, and she had the despairing feeling of being 
completely abandoned. 

She began to fumble with the gold chain on which 
she wore the whistle concealed within her dress. 
The man thought she was fumbling for a weapon 
and made a quick movement. 

“Hands up!” he cried sharply; and she turned 
to see the revolver in his hand pointed straight at 
ther. 

For a moment the shock of realising that her 
worst suspicions were true paralysed her. Slowly 
she lifted her arms, staring as if hypnotised at the 
little circular orifice of the weapon. Her eyes took 
on a blank, unseeing gaze, and the man chuckled, 
sure that in a moment she would faint away. 

Her mind, however, was working clearly. She 
decided that even if it meant instant death the 
whistle must be blown. She began to sway on her 4 
feet, she rolled up her eyes until only the whites 
showed. “Oh, I’m fainting!” she cried suddenly, 
dropping into a chair and grasping at her throat 
with both hands. 

In a second she had snatched out the whistle, 
disregarding the man’s furious shout of warning; 
and she had time to blow, once, twice, long piercing 
blasts upon it before the brute shot her at short 
range. 

It was hardly painful, more like a buffet of air, 
which hit her so hard that she was knocked back¬ 
wards. She felt sure that she could not be shot 


The Secret Room 267 

because she saw and heard so clearly—heard the 
woman in the blue hat say furiously, “I always knew 
if we let you in on this, you all-fired idiot, you’d 
queer it.” 

“Queer nothing!” was the angry retort. “We’re 
a few yards from the public road here—was I to let 
her go on whistling?” 

“She might whistle herself black in the face. 
Nobody ever goes along that road, and,_ as I told 
you, we’ve called off the guard.” 

Those words fell like doom on the girl’s failing 
perceptions. They had called off the guard! No¬ 
body had heard her whistle. She had given her life 
in vain, for she had not saved Carfrae. . . . She, 
was but faintly aware that she was being tied to the 
chair whereon she lay huddled . . . dimly she knew 
that there was movement all about her, people were 
hurrying, urging each other to haste . . . and then 
a voice close to her ear uttered these mysterious 
words: 

“Is the gas full on? Make sure. Right!” 

There followed silence and thick waves of dark¬ 
ness that deepened into night. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


THE S.O.S. CALL 

T HAT afternoon, as Adney and Baker sat at 
tea, after bringing Sir Carfrae home from his 
meeting, the parlourmaid came to say that someone 
was asking for Mr. Adney on the telephone. 

Off went Adney, and found that he was being 
called by the Marterstead police. 

They wanted him to come over to them as fast 
as he could get there in order to identify someone 
whom they had just apprehended, whose movements 
seemed to them to be more than suspicious. 

Adney, full of excitement, promised to come at 
once, and hurried back to the servants’ hall to see 
if he could get a lift from Baker. 

“I can’t take you,” said Baker. “I’ve got to 
drive Miss Kirby and her ladyship right in the oppo¬ 
site direction to Great Lanefield.” 

“Get out the little car and let her ladyship drive 
herself. She would, I know. This is very im¬ 
portant.” 

“What’s the colonel doing now?” asked Baker 
after a pause. 

“Gone down the park with her ladyship, to call on 
those two old Spanish scarecrows at the Lodge.” 

“Safe?” asked Baker. “What price you and me 
both going off and leaving him?” 

268 


The S.O.S. Call 269 

“Should think he’s safe enough in the park,” said 
Adney thoughtfully, “more especially now that 
they’ve put their hands on this merchant. However, 
I think perhaps I’d better run down to Marterstead 
on my push-bike and I’ll go and ask Miss Kirby if 
she thinks her ladyship would drive herself this eve¬ 
ning, and then you can toddle off down the park and 
do sentry till you see him and her coming back.” 

After finishing his tea he went off, therefore, and 
spoke to Miss Kirby. She objected to Lady Car- 
frae’s having to drive, when she was due to make a 
speech upon her arrival. She was already almost 
over-done, and they must be careful of her. Miss 
Kirby, however, did not like the idea that nobody 
was on guard. 

“If you really think that Sir Carfrae is in danger, 
the paddock is by no means safe—there are plenty 
of places in those coppices where a man could hide,” 
said she reflectively. “I must ask you not to go to 
Marterstead until Sir Carfrae comes in, Adney,” she 
added decidedly. “Ring up the inspector and tell 
him you can’t come for another hour at the least. 
Then go and take up your guard.” 

Adney thought this was sound advice. He went 
back to the hall, took off the receiver, and called up 
the Marterstead police. 

“What’s biting you?” came the derisive answer 
over the wire. “We haven’t called you up. We’ve 
made no arrest. Somebody’s having a joke with 
you, my son, although it’s not the first of April.” 

“Here, hold on! Don’t ring off!” shouted 


270 His Second Venture 

Adney, his sharp brain suddenly leaping to an en¬ 
tirely new view of the position. “Are you there? 
Well, something’s afoot—get that? I’ve had a 
bogus message, and you may bet it was sent to get 
me out of the way. Is the inspector in? Thanks 
be. Then give him this, word for word. Tell him 
Sir Carfrae has gone down to the Dairy Lodge, 
close to the park gate in Moorside Lane. There’ll 
be an attempt on his life—it may have been made 
already—but in any case ask the inspector to dash 
round to the park gate in Moorside Lane as fast as 
his car can bring him, and to take a couple of hefty 
chaps along.” 

Hanging up the receiver the moment he obtained 
assurance that this should be done, he burst wildly 
into the hall, where Baker was just rising from table. 

“Here, Baker! We must run for our lives! Take 
a big stick, man. That was a bogus police call I 
had. By the mercy of God I rang up and found 
out! Leg it as never in your life before—we may 
be too late, but we’ve got to try.” 

“You got your revolver?” gasped Baker, over¬ 
turning his chair and hurling himself out of the 
door. “Lord! What I’d give for the feel of my 
sword-baynit!” 

“Oh, the fool I’ve been!” panted Adney, as side 
by side they sprinted down the paddock. “To think, 
if Miss Kirby hadn’t bid me call ’em up I should 
never have known! ’Twas a smart idea to get you 
and me both safe out of their road-” 

Baker, as he ran, jerked out of himself comments 



The S.O.S. Call 271 

whose profanity might have withered the turf over 
which they were careering. 

Just as they topped the slight rise from which 
the Dairy Lodge became visible they heard a whistle 
—once, twice—then silence. 

“Oh, my Lord, if we’re too late I’ll cut my 
throat!” cried Adney in anguish. “That’s her lady¬ 
ship’s S.O.S. call—where is she? I don’t see a sign 
of anybody anywhere, do you?” 

“Make for the house, if you ask me,” counselled 
Baker. “After all, you know, them two old girls, 
they’re only Dagoes all said an’ done. I wouldn’t 
put any dirty trick past ’em myself-” 

“You’re right. Run, man, run if it kills you!” 

They bore down upon the lodge at top speed. 
Never a sound or movement could they hear as they 
approached. All was quiet except for the sound of 
a car in the lane beyond, just starting away. The 
locked front door detained them for a minute or 
two; then, as Val had done, they skirted round the 
house, looking for a means of entrance. 

The sitting-room window was not only closed but 
bolted, and the room seemed to them at first to be 
vacant. Then Baker, who had been flattening his 
nose against the glass, whispered: 

“See that chair, turned back to us? There’s 
something—someone—in it. It’s shaking.” 

The S.O.S. call had made them desperate. They 
set their shoulders to the windows, shivered the 
glass, burst in. 

Half-sitting, half-lying in the big chair was Lady 



272 His Second Venture 

Caron, her hands and feet tied with rope. Her head 
had fallen sideways, and at first Adney thought her 
dead. Between her shoulder and her breast, on the 
right side, a small dark circle of blood showed 
against her white summer frock. 

“My lady, my lady!” urged Adney frantically, 
as he began to untie her. “Can you hear, can you 
understand?” 

Her eyes opened. She looked at him, and he 
could see a faint flicker, a gleam of relief, cross 
her features. It was followed by an expression of 
acute anxiety. Her brows knit themselves as in 
horror, she began desperately to struggle for speech. 

“If only I had a drop of brandy!” 

“Here,” broke in Baker, “there’s some on the 
table. They’ve been having a nip before making 
their get-away. It may be poisoned, but risk it.” 

Adney forced some neat spirit into Valery’s 
mouth, and she made a visible effort and swallowed 
it. The effect was almost instantaneous. She 
uttered a sound, though inarticulate. 

“Yes, yes—try to tell us—life and death—it 
hangs on you. Where’s Sir Carfrae? What have 
they done to him?” 

“See—se—se-” she began, but her throat 

refused its office. After a pitiful struggle her eyes 
closed and two tears of despair crept under the lids. 

“More brandy!” cried Adney fiercely. 

“Ain’t brandy bad for a gunshot wound?” 

“That don’t matter, we got to make her speak.” 

The potent spirit was taken this time with less 



The S.O.S. Call 273 

difficulty. It seemed to galvanise the girl’s whole 
frame. She almost lifted herself from the chair. 
“Secret room—secret room!” she shrieked. “Poison 
gas! Quick! Quick! Quick!” 

With that she collapsed totally, her frame sank 
together, she slipped down and lay quite still. 

“She’s gone,” said Adney jerkily. “Plucky girl! 
She’s told us, though. But, God help me, I don’t 
know where the secret room is! Poison gas! We 
shall be too late!” 

“I know where that room is,” broke in Baker, 
“or I ought to. Mr. Eldrid, he showed me, one 
evening we was down here, before the place was let. 
Let me think now. It was a room that opened on 
the garden—if I don’t make a great mistake it was 
this very room we’re in, with that deep fireplace. 
Here it is!” 

He leapt to the side of the ingle-nook and shook 
the panel. “Where’s your gun, Bill? Blow out the 
catch!” 

Adney flew to his side. The girl was forgotten. 
In a few seconds they had blown out the lock and 
pushed open the door. 

It was pitch dark, and the smell of gas rolled out 
into the room; but it was not the overpowering 
stench with which men who had been in the trenches 
were familiar which came to their nostrils, but the 
ordinary fumes of household gas. 

Adney had hardly taken a step within when he 
stumbled over Caron’s body. Swiftly he hauled 
him forth and dragged him not only out into the 


274 His Second Venture 

room, but through the window, laying him in the 
fresh air upon the grass of the garden, where he at 
once proceeded to loosen his clothing and make the 
motions of artificial respiration with the nimbleness 
of one trained to First Aid. “He’s not dead—it’s 
only ordinary gas—he’s got a chance,” he cried 
vehemently. 

“Hadn’t I better go for the doctor this minute?” 
urged Baker distractedly. 

“Too late for her ladyship—and how do I know 
whether any of those devils are still about? Better 
not leave me alone—watch out, so as not to be 
surprised! There now, I can hear somebody coming 
—a footstep, wasn’t it?” 

“Thank God, it’s Mr. Eldrid,” replied Baker in 
tones of most profound thankfulness. 

Lyndsay appeared round the corner of the house, 
running madly; at sight of the motionless form on 
the grass he gave a cry of horror. 

“Oh, Adney, have you let them get him?” 

“He’ll do, sir; he’s coming round already, breath¬ 
ing,” Adney told him, continuing his work without 
a pause; “but I’m afraid they’ve done in her lady¬ 
ship.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 

THE FALSE CALLS 

M ISS KIRBY came downstairs, attired for the 
meeting, sunshade in hand, and putting on 
her gloves. She was vexed to find that, in spite of 
her orders to Adney, neither Baker nor the car were 
in evidence. 

She stepped out into the drive, glanced round, and 
not seeing what she looked for returned through the 
house, out upon the terrace, where, shading her eyes, 
she watched to see if Valery were approaching up 
the park. 

There was no sign of her, and it was already close 
upon seven o’clock, the hour of the meeting. 

Kirdles felt a little apprehensive, seeing that Car- 
frae and Valery were together. It was just possible 
that the man’s feelings had once more proved too 
strong for him, and he might be detaining Valery 
and distressing her. That, however, seemed hardly 
probable, since she was going to Great Lanefield 
entirely on his account, and it was most important 
for him that election work should be done. 

Restlessly Kirdles returned to the front of the 
house. Still no sign of the car, but to her relief she 
saw Lyndsay on his motor-cycle approaching. He 
had been busy on the other side of the constituency 
all day, canvassing, and he looked fagged as he drew 
275 


276 His Second Venture 

up at the door. It was extremely hot still—only six 
by the right time, though seven by the clocks. 

“Want to speak to me?” he asked, and she re¬ 
plied : “If you are going round to the garage, I wish 
you to speak sharply to Baker. He should have 
been at the door a quarter of an hour ago. I’ll go 
meanwhile and ring up Great Lanefield, where 
Valery is due to make a speech in about five minutes’ 
time.” 

“Great Lanefield?” asked Lyn incredulously. 
“Val going to Great Lanefield—now? How 
curious!” 

“Why curious?” 

“I’ve just come from there; stopped to have a 
talk with the chap who’s working up the village for 
us, and he said he was sorry they had to drop the 
meeting for this week, but hoped to get one before 
the election.” 

Kirdles started. “They rang us up soon after 
lunch,” said she. “Asked especially for her lady¬ 
ship, as she had made such an impression at Lufton 
yesterday. I had better call them now and make 
certain. Have you the number?” 

Lyn took a letter from his pocket and handed it 
to her. He got off his machine and went into the 
hall with her. 

“Better make sure before giving Baker his 
orders,” said he. 

The matter was soon set at rest. No meeting 
was taking place in Great Lanefield, and nobody had 
rung up from thence. 


The False Calls 277 

Kirdles was completely puzzled. She told of the 
call which Adney had had from the police, and said 
she supposed that Baker and he must have gone over 
to Marterstead. At the moment Blair, the parlour¬ 
maid, came through the hall, and Miss Kirby, in 
some agitation, asked if she knew where Adney and 
Baker were. 

“They both ran off down the park as fast as they 
could, miss,” said Blair. “Mr. Adney rushed into 
the hall and said he had had a bogus police call, and 
that he thought something was wrong. I heard him 
telling the police to take a car and go to Dairy 
Lodge as fast as they could.” 

“Good Heavens, Lyn, they’re both down there! 
Two calls—one to take Adney away and one to take 
Val! But she’s not here —my child’s not come 
back! . . . Lyn, Lyn, what have they done to 
her?” 

Lyn made no reply. Without one word he ran 
back to the drive, leapt on his machine and rode off, 
round the house and down the paddock, disappear¬ 
ing almost like a conjuring trick. 

Kirdles, for almost the first time in her strong* 
useful life, turned faint. She collapsed into a chair 
in the hall, and Blair did the most sensible thing she 
could by taking her fan and fanning her. 

Out of the anguish of her mind the first thought 
that fell from her lips was, “And it was I who 
advised her to come back!” Then a ray of con¬ 
solation shone out. It was not Val against whose 
life there were designs. Suppose the worst had hap- 


278 His Second Venture 

pened, and Carfrae had been shot—well, that re- 
moved the great difficulty from Val’s life. She 
would be free. . . . 

“Give me a drink of water,” gasped the poor 
soul, rising to her feet. “I am going down the 
paddock.” 

Blair produced what she asked for, and after 
drinking Miss Kirby set out, hurrying down the 
carriage road as fast as her not very great powers 
of locomotion would permit. 

She could hear the sound of voices as she drew 
near to the Dairy Lodge—loud and angry voices, 
raised in altercation; but when she had tried the 
locked door in vain, and, like everybody else, had 
then walked round the house into the garden, she 
stopped short. Caron lay upon the grass, his head 
and shoulders propped against Adney, his face like 
death. 

She could see nobody else, though the loud voices 
still reached her from the little stable-yard; but 
before she had found breath to speak a police in® 
spector came through the garden, and on seeing her 
touched his hat respectfully. 

“Bad business, miss,” he said. “We were too 
late, but we have done one thing—we have got the 
whole lot of them.” 

Kirby felt a trembling of the legs, and her own 
voice sounded strange to her as it came from her 
lips. “Is Sir Carfrae shot?” 

“No—gassed. He’s coming round. . . . His 


The False Calls 279 

servant and the chauffeur got him out just in time.” 

“And . . . Lady Caron?” 

The man hesitated. “Her ladyship was shot,” 
he then said in a low voice. “Mr. Eldrid is in there 
with her.” 

The cry uttered by Kirdles pierced even the dulled 
senses of the stupefied Carfrae. He raised his head 
and opened his eyes. Meanwhile the lady rushed 
into the sitting-room, wherein the fumes of gas still 
lingered, and stood for a moment rocking on her 
feet, feeling that unless she kept very tight hold of 
herself she would lose her senses. 

Lyndsay had dispatched Baker on his motor-cycle 
for the doctor, had removed Valery’s hat and placed 
her upon the sofa, with a pillow under her head. 

She lay with closed eyes, almost as if asleep, her 
hand still clutching the silver whistle which hung 
about her neck. 

Lyn had opened her dress, and after ransacking 
the cottage, had found a clean towel with which he 
had made a pad; but he had nothing with which to 
secure it. 

Kirdles knelt down. Her lips shook so that 
she could hardly articulate. “Is she gone?” she 
wailed. 

“No. I thought she was dead, but she can’t be, 
for she is still bleeding. However, I should think 
it was an affair of moments,” he answered in a voice 
she hardly knew. The light had gone out of his 
face; he was frowning in his efforts to keep back 
tears. 


280 His Second Venture 

Kirdles had crammed into her bag a bottle of dis¬ 
infectant, some lint and a roller bandage. She sat¬ 
urated the lint, adjusted it carefully, and then she 
and Lyndsay between them contrived to raise Valery 
and to pass the bandage two or three times round 
her body so as to hold the compress on the wound. 

It looked so small and the bleeding was so 
slight. . . . 

That done, they remained, Lyn on his knees, she 
crouched upon a low chair, waiting in a helpless, 
hopeless silence. 

After a very few minutes, which seemed hours, 
the inspector came to the window. 

“If there’s no more you can do here, would you 
be so kind as to come to the garage for a minute?” 
he asked. “Both Miss Kirby and Mr. Eldrid? I 
want you to identify your late tenants.” 

Miss Kirby looked up aghast. “Our late tenants? 
You don’t say the La .Placis had anything to do 
with this?” 

“I’m afraid there is no doubt but they had, miss. 
This way, please. We won’t keep you a minute.” 

The police car almost filled the little yard. In it 
sat two women and a man, handcuffed. The women 
were noisy and abusive. 

“Adney and the chauffeur, they’ve both identified 
the man as having seen him yesterday on the road 
near Lufton,” said the inspector; “but what about 
these two?” He indicated the tomato and the blue 
lady, who sat glaring. 

“Oh, no, no, I’m thankful to say these are not the 


The False Calls 281 

least bit like the Misses La Placi!” cried Kirdles 
in her relief. 

One of the police interrupted the triumphant 
laugh and, “There you see!” of his prisoners. He 
coolly put out his hand and lifted the tomato toque 
and yellow hair bodily from the head of one of 
them, her coarse black hair, screwed into a ball upon 
her head, becoming visible. 

Miss Kirby uttered a startled exclamation. “It 
is—it isn’t—well, it isn’t really like Miss La Placi, 
but it might be she,” she stammered. 

Both the women burst into a fresh volley of abuse 
of the police and of England, in which country 
harmless tourists were seized upon and carried off, 
subjected to horrible indignities. 

The police, however, had unstrapped and opened 
the luggage carried in the big touring car. They set 
a pretty silvery wig upon the woman’s head, and 
surmounted it with a mushroom hat and strings. 
There sat the old lady, a fiendish caricature of her¬ 
self, but indubitably she who had driven in her pony 
cart about the village for so many months. 

“Lord have mercy on us, how blind we were,” 
cried Kirdles, “but who could have supposed? They 
were such model tenants—such great ladies!” 

“They’re as clever as old Nick himself,” returned 
the inspector drily, “but I think their wings are 
clipped for a bit. However, if Adney hadn’t called 
us and told us to come along sharp, they’d have 
made their get-away all right.” 


282 His Second Venture 

“Who shot Lady Caron?” gasped Kirdles in an 
almost inaudible voice. 

“The man, I think; but they all three had guns 
on them.” 

“How—did it happen?” 

“We don’t know yet, miss. We haven’t had time 
to find out. All we can say for certain is what the 
chauffeur told us—that her ladyship managed to get 
out her whistle and make the signal agreed upon 
before she was shot; and she was still conscious, or 
partly, when they found her, and managed to tell 
them where Sir Carfrae was before she collapsed.” 

‘And where was he?” 

“In the secret room. They filled it with gas. If 
all had happened as they planned—if Lady Caron 
had left him and gone hurrying home to keep her 
imaginary appointment—then they would have been 
off and nobody would have known what had become 
of Sir Carfrae. Everyone knew the old girls were 
just starting for Brighton—their goings would have 
excited no surprise; and we should have beaten 
every plantation and dragged every pond before we 
thought of searching the cottage.” 

As he spoke wheels were heard in the lane and the 
doctor drove up. 

“Now,” said Kirdles, wiping her trembling lips 
and turning her grey, haggard face to Lyn, “we shall 
know the worst—we shall know the worst I” 


CHAPTER XXX 


CAR, M.P. 

I N Marterstead the crowd before the Town Hall 
was dense and a-tiptoe with expectation. It 
seemed ages later than they had expected before the 
long window of the Town Hall opened at last, and 
the Town Clerk emerged upon the balcony with a 
slip of paper in his hand. He announced that Sir 
Carfrae Caron was elected member for the division; 
and the roars of cheering which immediately broke 
out almost drowned his subsequent reading of the 
figures. 

Then he held the window open while Sir Carfrae 
came out, followed by Sir George Bowyer, his 
agents, and other leaders of his party in the con¬ 
stituency. 

It was Sir George who spoke first—an old 
favourite. Leaning over down to the crowd, he told 
them that Sir Carfrae’s majority was nearly two 
thousand—his predecessor of the same politics 
having been defeated at the previous election by 
more than two thousand. 

“That,” exulted Sir George, “means a turnover 
of nearly four thousand votes; and we rejoice that 
in spite of the dastardly and un-English attempt 
upon our new member’s life, he is able to be here 
this evening, and to thank you all for your support.” 
Caron placed himself beside his old friend, and 
283 


284 His Second Venture 

the crowd let itself go. The prolonged cheering 
culminated in “For he’s a jolly good fellow!” lustily 
bawled by the rough Martershire throats; and then 
they began to shout for Lady Caron. 

“Her ladyship ! Three cheers for her ladyship!” 

On that, Sir Carfrae lifted his hand and made a 
sign for silence. In the flare of the lamps and 
torches his face looked ghastly and drawn; but his 
voice was steady. 

“Nobody,” he said, “would rejoice more heartily 
than my wife to know the result of our work. No¬ 
body has worked harder than she has to bring it 
about. Were it not for her heroism and devotion I, 
as you already know, should not be here to thank 
you for the confidence you have placed in me. But 
Lady Caron lies still between life and death; and 
so, although I should wish to be longer among you 
this evening, I am going to ask you to allow me to 
go home at once and quietly, as I feel that at the 
present time my place is at her side.” 

The words were simple, almost bare; but the tone 
and manner were everything. The man’s evident 
misery, his torture of anxiety, was plain for all to 
read. Their hearts went out to him. Then a voice 
in the crowd cried, “Three cheers for her ladyship !” 
and a man near the balcony shouted up— 

“When she gets better she’ll be pleased to know 
we give ’er three good ’uns, sir!” Another voice 
bawled lustily, “Tell her we put our shirts on you!” 

There was a roar of appreciation, and the “three 
good ’uns” were given with a will. 

Caron waited at the balustrade until the sounds 


Car, M.P. 285 

died away. He was trying to speak again. Once, 
twice, he tried; but his voice failed him. He turned 
away, having accomplished more by silence than 
by speech. 

“My I Ain’t he fond of ’er!” said the mothers 
and wives one to another. “Parted on their weddin’ 
day, and now they’ve not had a bare three months!” 
“If she don’t live, I suppose ’e’ll never get over it.” 

Lyndsay came forward to utter the words that 
were needed. “Sir Carfrae asks me to tell you that 
if—that when —her ladyship is well enough to re¬ 
ceive the message she shall hear of your kindness to 
her this night.” 

The cordial words and cries of encouragement 
pursued them when they were shut into the car 
together, and Baker was driving carefully down 
Market Cross and round into the Winstable Road. 
Carfrae lay back as if exhausted; but after a few 
minutes he leaned forward, dropping his forehead in 
his hands. Lyn fidgeted. There was something he 
wanted to say, but he lacked the courage. 

The doctors had cut and scarred the delicate 
white flesh of Valery’s back and extracted the bullet 
which had lodged in a rib. The wound was clean; 
but they feared some unsuspected trouble in con¬ 
nection with the lung, very near to which the shot? 
had passed, for she could not be induced to swallow 
food. 

She had never been fully conscious since the 
moment when, with a last supreme effort of will, she 
held death at bay until she had done her utmost to 
save Caron. 


286 His Second Venture 

She did not seem to understand nor respond when 
spoken to, though she had several times pressed 
Miss Kirby’s hand when begged to do so. They had 
to feed her by injection, and she lay all day with her 
eyes closed, growing so restless at night that they 
were forced to administer opiates, which naturally 
increased the daily drowsiness. 

By the doctor’s orders nobody had spoken to her 
of anything that had passed, nor had Caron entered 
her room. 

They had not carried her to her own quarters on 
the top floor, but to a guest-room below. She had 
manifested no surprise, nor ever asked where she 
was. 

That morning both their own doctor and the 
great specialist who extracted the bullet had exam¬ 
ined her; and Kirdles knew that they had but little 
hope. She was sinking—very slowly—but still sink¬ 
ing. Unless something could be done to induce her 
to come out of her torpor and to swallow nourish¬ 
ment naturally, she would gradually slip away out 
of existence. 

It was the knowledge of their opinion which was 
driving Lyn to speak. 

“Car,” said he, after a long silence, “I want to 
say something.” 

Caron started from reverie. “Well?” he asked 
drearily. 

“You know—the doctors are not satisfied with 
Val?” 

“I know.” 


Car, M.P. 287 

“Well, I think they are making an awful mistake 
in keeping you away from her.” 

After turning this over in his mind, “What makes 
you think so?” asked Caron. 

“Well, I mean ... it seems like giving her 
away . . . but perhaps you know it already.” 

“Know what?” 

“That Valery is head over ears in love with you.” 

“That’s rot.” 

“By no means. I know it, Kirdles knows it. 
If she doesn’t care about you, why is her hatred so 
hot against you? I didn’t myself realise it until 
you came home, but now I see it clearly. She’s 
afraid of herself. What do you suppose made her 
go back to the lodge that day after you had parted 
in the park?” 

suppose we never shall know that.” 

“If you want to know, why not go and ask her?” 

“She takes no notice of anybody.” 

“It’s my belief that she would notice you, even 
if it was only to fly into a rage; at least it would 
break up her lethargy.” 

“I’ve made up my mind that if they tell me 
definitely there’s no hope, I shall go in and try to 
get her to forgive me.” 

“I wouldn’t wait till then. She is in the same 
state now that she fell into after you left her and 
went off to Africa. Her whole life-force is founded 
upon love.” 

“She told me the very day before she was shot 
that she hadn’t an ounce of sentiment in her whole 
composition.” 


288 His Second Venture 

“I think that’s true. She isn’t sentimental. It’s 
much deeper than that. She’s an ‘all or nothing’ 
woman. There are not many of them; but she’s 
one. With her, it’s you or nobody.” 

Caron gazed out into the gathering night with 
eyes which held a faint dawn of hope. “If I dared 
. . . but suppose it were to kill her?” 

“I tell you it wouldn’t kill her. I believe she’d 
eat if she thought you wanted her to try. I was 
watching her to-day, and she seemed to me like a 
watch running down, as if what she wanted was 
rewinding. I believe her to be fully conscious, but 
there’s a cloud of some kind on her mind. My idea 
is that she thinks you are dead, though she never 
has asked. She may suppose that to be the only 
possible explanation of your not having come to 
see her.” 

“By Jove, there may be something in that! . . . 
But how do you know?” with a passing flash of 
curiosity. 

Lyndsay did not reply. It was fortunate that 
the fast falling night hid the rush of blood to his 
face; and Carfrae’s mind soon ceased to occupy 
itself with the answer to his question. He was far 
too deeply absorbed in his own tragedy to have time 
to do more than surmise the existence of Lyn’s. 

It had taken the latter so long to screw up his 
courage to the point of saying what he wished to say 
that the swift car was already at their destination 
before more could be added. 

As they entered the house Miss Kirby met them. 


Car, M.P. 289 

She looked grey and old, and the polite interest 
with which she asked for their news was a very 
feeble shadow of what her eagerness would have 
been in happier circumstances. 

“It’s all right. A majority for us of over a 
thousand,” Lyn assured her, and sighed, even in 
communicating good news. 

Caron handed his hat to Blair, who shyly begged 
to offer her congratulations. He thanked her 
wearily, turned immediately to Kirdles, and asked 
abruptly, “How is she?” 

“Very bad to-night,” she answered, turning away 
to hide the working of her mouth which would not 
be controlled. “She is feverish and in pain, but 
she won’t speak nor look at me. The nurse thinks 
. . . she thinks . . .” She turned away, unable to 
continue. 

“What does she think?” abruptly asked Caron. 

“That the end is—quite—near. The pulse is 
failing rapidly.” 

“That settles it,” said Carfrae abruptly. “I am 
going in to see her.” 

Kirdles turned her anguished, mottled face to 
him, her hands wrung together. “Yes—do! Do!” 
she cried. “It’s the only hope—the only chance! 
If—if she thought you loved her she might want to 
stay-” 

“If she thought I loved her,” echoed Caron 
huskily. 

Without another word he strode past Miss Kirby, 
up the stair and into the sick-room. 



290 His Second Venture 

At sight of him the nurse by the bedside looked 
up, startled. She sprang to her feet, motioning him 
away. He went forward and spoke in carefully 
dropped tones. 

“I am taking this matter into my own hands,” 
he said. “You will please give me the nourishment 
which Lady Caron ought to take, and I will see that 
she has it.” 

“But you don’t know,” she whispered, “you don’t 
understand how critical it is.” 

“I do, and that is why I am here. I accept all 
responsibility. Give me the food please, and then 
go away. I will call you when I want you.” 

Without comprehending how, the nurse found 
herself outside the room. Catching sight of Miss 
Kirby coming towards her along the corridor she 
ran to implore help. Kirdles drew her into her own 
room and shut the door. 

Meanwhile Caron walked to the bedside and 
gazed down upon the wasted frame of his wife. In 
spite of her pallor, the nightly recurring fever had 
brought a spot of burning red to each cheek. The 
lashes of her closed eyes looked almost startling in 
their contrast. Her hair had been bobbed, as its 
length and thickness interfered with the nursing 
and increased the deathly perspirations f^om which 
she suffered. She looked pathetically young. 

Caron’s face as he gazed down upon her showed 
but little of the passions which rent him. He sat 
down beside her pillow. 

“Come, Val,” said he in his usual tones, “open 
your eyes. Time to have your supper.” 


Car, M.P. 291 

A shudder ran through the girl’s whole body. 
Her hands, which had been moving restlessly to and 
fro, suddenly became still. Evidently she had heard 
what he said. 

Stooping, he passed his left arm under her and 
raised her so that her head lay against his shoulder. 
“You must tell me if I hurt you,” said he gently, 
“but this nasty business of feeding has got to be 
put through.” 

He became aware that she was trying to whisper 
something, and strained his ears to catch the almost 
inaudible mutter. “Then—you’re—not—dead?” 

She had spoken. His pulses raced with excite¬ 
ment. 

“No, my girl, I’m still alive to plague you. Look 
at me and see.” 

The blue-veined lids lifted. She looked at him 
long and earnestly. “Thought you were dead,” 
she whispered. 

“Not I. I’m here in your room—the thing you 
specially forbade. And what’s more, I shan’t go 
out till you have drunk all this.” 

He put the feeding-cup to her lips and she drank. 

“Good,” said he, though it was all he could do to 
speak steadily, so tremendous was his agitation. 
“I thought that threat would work.” 

As she lay back, gasping, against his breast, he 
thought he saw just the ghost of a smile upon her 
lips. 

He waited a minute or two, his whole mind poised 
in anticipation. So far down the slope was she 
that he feared the reaction might be too much. But 


292 His Second Venture 

realising that the first thing was to reinforce her 
bodily weakness, he once more held the feeding-cup 
to her, and this time she drank steadily and took 
more than one draught. 

“You are a brick,” said he. “Clever girl! I 
shall give you a certificate for good conduct! All 
done by kindness, too! I haven’t beaten you, 
have I?” 

Her eyes opened quite widely. She turned their 
gaze up to his face, bending over. He could see 
that she was quite conscious—her look searched his 
very soul. His eyes smiled down into hers. It was 
as if he desired to provoke or tease her. 

“Come! You won’t be able to get up off that 
bed and kick me out unless you go on feeding!” he 
taunted. 

She drained the cup to its dregs. 

“Well,” said he exultantly, “you certainly are the 
best patient in the world! That frees you for the 
next two hours; but I dpn’t want to put you down 
yet. I think you’ve been lying there on the flat of 
your back too long. Just shut your eyes and have a 
nap like this—I’m sure you’re comfy, and so am I.” 

Again he thought he saw that faintest sketch of 
a smile about her lips. But her terrible weakness 
asserted itself, and the lids slowly fell over her eyes. 

She made no motion to be put down, accepting his 
dictatorship quite as a matter of course. 

He braced himself against the bedhead, putting 
both his arms about her, and laying down his cheek 
upon the top of her head. In less than half an hour 
he knew she slept profoundly. 


Car, M.P. 293 

Then he laid her down, crossed the room in his 
stockinged feet, opened the door and showed two 
amazed women the empty cup in his hand. 

“She’s asleep,” he said, “and breathing easily. 
I shall stay in the room all night, so that whenever 
she wakes she will find me there. What fools doc¬ 
tors are! She had been thinking I was dead!” 

“How do you know?” 

“She said so.” 

“What—just now? She spoke to you?” 

“Certainly. She said, ‘I thought you were dead.’ 
I told her she was not so easily rid of me.” 

Kirdles turned and made a dash for her room, 
sobbing audibly in the revulsion of feeling. Caron 
came after her, put his arms round her shoulders, 
soothed her as if she had been his mother. “I only 
wish I had defied the fools a week ago,” said he. 
“Now give me a kiss and wish me luck. I’m going 
back in case she misses me.” 

But Valery slept twelve hours without moving. 

When at last she awakened he was there beside 
her, a queer smile on his face. She gave him an 
answering smile, and he said at once, “Now, no 
talking! You are not to begin to pitch into me 
until you are fed. Better lift you again as I did last 
night—you seemed to drink very comfortably like 
that.” 

She made no objection at all. Deftly he raised 
her, and propped her against him, and once more 
fed her. This time she ate with obvious appetite, 


294 His Second Venture 

swallowing down the meat-juice and milk as if her 
system craved for it. 

“Fine!” said Carfrae. “You’ll be having eggs 
and bacon to-morrow if you are such an exemplary 
girl.” 

“Well, I’m hungry,” said Val almost aloud. 

“I don’t wonder,” he replied tenderly, stroking 
back her hair and longing to kiss the pale forehead. 
“You do know who I am, don’t you, Val?” he in¬ 
quired after a minute. 

She turned up her eyes to him with that same 
eloquent but indescribable look she had given him 
the previous night. “Car,” said she softly. 

“That’s not all,” he murmured fondling her hand. 
“I’m not only Car now, I’m Car, M.P. What does 
your ladyship think of that?” 

She uttered a faint little squeak of surprise. “Is 
it over . . . the election?” 

“Yes. I’m in by a thousand and more. Just 
about the number of people there were that day you 
spoke for me in the Lufton Town Hall. You did 
it, my dear.” 

“Nonsense,” said she in faint amusement; and 
after a pause. “Where’s nurse? I’ve got ever such 
a pretty bed-jacket. I want her to put it on me.” 

“I suppose that means that I’m to go,” he said, 
“and as I’ve had no breakfast, I will take your 
ladyship’s hint. But don’t you flatter yourself that 
you’ve done with me. I’m going to pester you with 
food by night and day until you are strong enough 
to get up and lock the door.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 

WHAT COMES NEXT? 

T HE Sir Carfrae Caron who went down that 
day to his committee-rooms to receive the 
congratulations of his agents, and to thank as many 
of his constituents as he could find, was a different 
being from the tired, haggard man who had stood 
over-night upon the balcony listening through the 
plaudits to the creeping foot of death menacing him 
ever more closely. 

Though he had not closed his eyes that night he 
was full of spirit and fire, and, as on the previous 
evening, everyone said, “How devoted he is to her, 
isn’t he?” 

“You think she has really turned the corner?” 
asked Sir George Bowyer. 

“I think so,” replied Caron exultantly. “She has 
no fever this morning, she slept naturally for about 
twelve hours, and her pulse is astonishingly stronger 
than yesterday. If she keeps it up we ought to 
have no more trouble. This morning she was well 
enough to hear the news of my success, and it 
bucked her no end.” 

“You haven’t yet heard from her how she came 
to return to Dairy Lodge that day?” 

“No. I am sure she remembers all that hap- 
295 


296 His Second Venture 

pened, but I don’t want to mention anything that 
might agitate her until she’s a very great deal 
stronger than she now is. All I can tell you is that 
I parted from her some little way up the park. They 
calculated to a nicety exactly how far from the 
house I should be stopped, so as to make it quite 
certain that she would go on and that I should 
return to the lodge without her. She walked on 
quietly but not very slowly, as she was, you remem¬ 
ber, expecting to go to Great Lanefield at once, 
to speak at a meeting which did not exist.” 

“And you went back?” 

“Yes. The old ladies seemed quite genuinely 
delighted that I should see into the hidey-hole. 
One of them was lighting a candle. The other 
pushed open the door. 

“ ‘You may walk in freely, there is no step,’ ” 
said she with a beaming smile. Like a fool I walked 
calmly in and heard the door click behind me in¬ 
stantaneously. Of course, I realised at once that 
I had been trapped, and I felt furious. My idea 
was that they would go off for their holiday and 
leave me there . . . shut up to starve or suffocate, 
I thought this not a very serious probability, for of 
course I knew that search would be made for me 
before long. Granting that nobody missed me until 
Val returned from the meeting, I should not have to 
be there more than an hour or two, even supposing 
I was not able to open the door with a knife. I 
tried cautiously to find the keyhole, and soon became 
aware that it was stopped at the outer end by some- 


What Comes Next? 297 

thing I could not remove. However, almost at 
once, before I could think of any other plan, I per¬ 
ceived a deadly smell of gas. It was rushing in; 
and then I knew that, long before help arrived, I 
should be suffocated. As I think you know, the 
chamber is surrounded with an air jacket through 
which no sound can penetrate. I yelled and I kicked 
at the door; but the space was small and the fumes 
soon did their work.” 

“And by the time Adney and Baker got there 
she had been shot?” 

“Yes. They found her tied to a chair. She 
was far too seriously injured to be able to explain 
anything; but she literally forced herself to tell 
them where I was. Then, I’m afraid, they left her 
to her fate in their frantic desire to extricate me 
in time.” 

“Well, it will be most interesting to know how and 
why she went back to the lodge after leaving it. Your 
men were neither of them within reach?” 

“Unfortunately, no. They have felt it terribly; 
but I can hardly blame them. From the moment 
we landed in England—I should say, from the 
moment we crossed the Italian frontier—there had 
been nothing at all to excite suspicion. The police, 
both in London and here in Martershire, were on 
the alert. No suspicious strangers were known to 
be about. I was within my own grounds, and the 
two men, who had had a long, tiring day, were 
having some tea. The chauffeur was just going off 
to take my wife to this imaginary meeting at Great 


298 His Second Venture 

Lanefield, and then there came a bogus police call 
for Adney, which very nearly sent him off on a 
fool’s errand to Marterstead. I can most truly say 
that no faintest suspicion of the bona fides of my 
tenants had ever entered my head.” 

“I hear they are to be extradited?” 

“Both the women. They are badly wanted by 
the New York police. The man will be brought to 
trial here, and had Valery died as the result of his 
shot would have been hanged. As it is, he will prob¬ 
ably get a severe sentence. The trio have operated 
together for some years. They had no personal 
grudge against me. They were running a gambling 
saloon in Algiers, having made New York too hot 
to hold them, when the Halis bribed them to arrange 
this business. I fancy this will be the end of it.” 

“Your constituency devoutly hopes so,” laughed 
Sir George. 

From the moment of being assured of Carfrae’s 
safety, Valery made steady, and at first incredibly 
swift, progress towards recovery. 

While her life hung in the balance Caron was with 
her continually, except for those hours which were 
given to sleep and a walk. From the time of his 
first going into her room there was, however, prac¬ 
tically no doubt of the issue. At the end of three 
or four days she was strong enough for him to 
venture to leave her. 

She was quite able to understand and to appreciate 
the fact that he must go to London to take his seat 


What Comes Next? 299 

in the House. He had to be in his place constantly 
during the remainder of the session, which was a 
stormy one; and was often kept very late. He 
always, however, made a point of returning to Arch¬ 
wood once in every twenty-four hours, even though 
sometimes it was three o’clock in the morning when 
Baker drove the car into the gates. 

In spite of fatigue and late hours, he always con¬ 
trived to look fresh and smiling when he came into 
the sick-room for his daily glimpse of the conva¬ 
lescent. His press of work was, however, formi¬ 
dable, so that it was always a brief visit. Lyndsay 
was also kept so completely occupied with the volu¬ 
minous correspondence of the new member, that he 
likewise had but fleeting peeps at the new Valery 
with the bobbed hair, who looked so strangely 
younger, shyer, softer than the Oxford undergradu¬ 
ate had been wont to appear. 

To Carfrae it seemed as if that session would 
never end. His interest in his new work and his 
new surroundings was keen, but the undercurrent 
of tremendous excitement, resolutely held in check, 
chafed and strained him. He knew that he must 
wait and possess his soul in patience, until such time 
as he himself should be free to give his whole con¬ 
sideration to the question of Valery’s future; and 
also until she herself was strong enough to face the 
situation with something of her old grip. 

He lived through those days, his maiden days in 
Parliament, as if in a dream, of which the most 
dream-like and unreal moments were those in which 


300 His Second Venture 

he tapped at the brass knocker on Valery’s door— 
she had been taken up to the old nurseries as soon 
as she was well enough to express the wish to be 
moved—and was admitted to the room wherein he 
had once been so mercilessly snubbed, and ordered 
not to trespass there again. 

She little knew the effort it cost him to hold, 
during these brief interviews, to the attitude of 
affectionate teasing which had been so successful in 
pulling her back from the very brink of the grave. 
He seldom came empty-handed, bringing home turtle 
soup for her, or some new and special dainty to 
tempt her appetite. He ordered oysters, he pur¬ 
chased cushions with a special eye to the colouring 
of her room; and as her recovery progressed he 
procured a wonderful patent garden couch, with a 
canopy, for her use in the garden. He did all that 
a man could to make his devotion plain; but he 
was never serious. In fact, he loved to make Val 
laugh; and at first this was not easy. 

As she grew stronger her self-possession returned 
to her. At first she did not quite know how to take 
him, but soon she had accepted and adopted the 
new terms, much as she had done when she came 
back to him before. 

Often he lost himself in speculation as to her real 
feelings towards him. Lyndsay had said she was in 
love with him. When he recalled the scene between 
them which had taken place in that very room where 
now he sat beside her sofa, a welcome guest, he felt 
far from certain that Lyndsay was right. Most 
undeniably she had begun to revive, had come back 


What Comes Next? 301 

from the very brink of the grave, as soon as she 
knew that he lived; but he could not rid himself of 
the torturing doubt lest this might be really due to 
her intense desire to make good her word and see 
him safely elected to Parliament. He remembered 
how, on the way home from the Lufton meeting, 
she had frozen him with the intimation that what 
she had then said had been spoken in pursuance of 
the agreement that she was to do all she could to 
get him returned for the division. He remembered 
her indignation when he had told her she had better 
leave the house; how she had said he should not 
let her down after all the trouble she was taking for 
him. Her pleasure at the sight of him whom she 
supposed to have been murdered might be due— 
leaving out of account the natural relief of a sensi¬ 
tive girl who finds that murder has not been done— 
to her triumph in having succeeded in saving the 
life of the man who had injured her and for whom 
she had in return done so much. 

As she regained her health and her mental poise 
these doubts assailed him with more force. Care¬ 
fully he skirted away from any, even the vaguest, 
allusions to the future—from anything which might 
give her a chance to stab him with some mention of 
her own plans, exclusive of his. 

So the days wore on until the dawn of that one 
which found him a free man. The House had ad¬ 
journed; the boys were coming home the following 
day for their holidays; and it was Valery’s twenty- 
third birthday. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


THE FINAL ARRANGEMENT 

C ARON opened his eyes that summer morning 
with the sense that the moment had come 
when things must be set upon a definite footing. 

The gardens of his old home lay steeped in sun¬ 
shine and glowing with colour. The Madonna lilies 
stood up against the dark yew hedges in pure con¬ 
trast with the flaming montbretias and the larkspurs 
and dahlias. As he leaned from his window it 
seemed to him that he breathed incense. 

His home! Would it be really his? He recalled 
his childhood there—his lonely childhood, for he 
had had no brothers and sisters. His father was 
elderly and invalidish, his mother beautiful and 
worldly. She made a second marriage, went to 
India with her husband, died there. . . . 

He travelled back in thought along the road of 
his own life. How completely unreflecting, how 
blindly optimistic he had been! When he met 
Blanche Eldrid, and her shadowy beauty turned his 
youthful head, there had been no need to consult 
anything but his own desires. He married her in a 
rush of passion, and before he realised what had 
happened he found himself husband and father, tied 
for life to a woman for whom he felt first irritation, 
then indifference, then dislike, which approached 
302 


The Final Arrangement 303 

by stealthy degrees to something that resembled 
loathing. 

She had lived in the house—had filled it with 
people he hated. She had left him to solitude in 
India while she lounged her life away in the garden 
or the drawing-room, immersed in contemplation of 
her wonderful self. 

How he had hated his furloughs! How he had 
detested coming back to England! 

And now? 

He knew that if the girl upstairs in his old nurs¬ 
eries would open her arms and take him in he could 
be happy for the first time in his life; happy in his 
home, in his place where he belonged. His whole 
being craved for Val as if he had been a boy. No; 
it was incredible. Such happiness could not be for 
him. As he lay in the filthy dungeon at Hal-i-Mor, 
or in the hot hospital at Tahoura, tortured by flies, 
how he had longed for the sight of these lawns, these 
spreading oaks and dark cedars. He had wished 
with all the strength of his heart that he had not to 
take Valery with them. 

Now all his hopes and fears and cravings were 
focused upon the question of whether or no she 
could care for him—could forget the years that sun¬ 
dered them and give him what he had never in all 
his starved life possessed. 

As he thought of the expressive face which had 
come to mean so much to him that it blocked out 
all else, he grew hot all over with the force of his 
longing for the love of this girl. 


304 His Second Venture 

The sound of the breakfast bell drew him down¬ 
stairs, and Kirdles looked up from her coffee-pot 
with a gleam of approval as she saw that he was in 
white flannels. 

“Come,” said she, “this looks like holiday time!” 

Caron came round the table, bent his head, and 
kissed her forehead with a gesture that well became 
him. “Wish me luck,” he said hoarsely. 

She turned up her kind face to his. They were 
alone, for punctuality at meals was not in the long 
list of Lyn’s virtues. 

“I do wish you luck,” she said kindly; but he 
detected a note of anxiety in her voice. 

“You are on my side, Kirdles?” he asked wist¬ 
fully. 

“Yes, I am now,” she said slowly. “I thought 
I never should be. I was prepared to go to any 
length to get her away from you; but now-” 

“Yet you are not sure?” he asked, looking down 
and growing red. “I mean, you don’t know what 
she feels—what she’ll be likely to say to me?” 

Kirdles desisted from her occupation and leaned 
back in her chair with knit brow. “I think,” said 
she slowly, “that it will be touch and go. . . .” 

“You mean that she herself is not certain; that 
she has not really forgiven me; that she—er—might 
say ‘yes’ from a sense of duty . . . ?” 

“Oh, no,” said Kirdles quickly, “not that. No 
sense of duty will compel her. . . .” 

“And yet,” he objected, “a sense of duty did 



The Final Arrangement 305 

bring her back to help me; she came back because 
she thought she ought to come.” 

Kirdles slowly shook her head. “Not exactly. 
She came because she was sorry for you. She 
thought that she was putting you in a tight corner, 
and to her there was something mean in wreaking 
vengeance on you. Lyndsay made her see that she 
would be doing you far more harm than you had 
done her.” 

“Oh! Lyndsay made her see it, did he?” 

“Yes. He understands her in a wonderful way.” 

Caron did not reply. He seated himself and 
helped himself to food with a desponding air. 

Quite suddenly he was face to face with a possi¬ 
bility of whose existence he had all along been sub¬ 
consciously aware, but whose gravity he had hitherto 
declined to consider. 

Was it Lyndsay, after all? 

Had Valery returned to duty because Lyndsay 
went and fetched her? Had her anxiety over his 
own life been, as he suspected, only because she had 
undertaken to help him to success and could not 
bear that her efforts should fail? 

The light went out of the broad blue skies and 
his heart sank. 

Kirdles, looking at him, wavered in her mind. 
Should she or should she not tell him that in her 
opinion everything hung upon himself—upon the 
way in which he approached Valery? 

She guessed a great deal of what was passing in 
the girl’s mind, and how difficult she was finding it 


306 His Second Venture 

to believe that this man could honestly and whole¬ 
heartedly be her lover. As Kirdles surmised, she 
was arguing something like this: 

Carfrae found himself at home and married. His 
wife was good to look at, and above the average in 
intelligence. She was popular in the county. His 
house was the perfection of comfort and good man¬ 
agement; his children in the hands of a most capable 
woman. If Valery went out of his life all this 
well-being must cease. He would be once more, as 
three years ago, a helpless widower with a family 
of children, to whom he was more or less a stranger. 

All this Valery must perceive, and its force must 
be recognised. In a word, her husband might well 
desire reconciliation with her in order to make the 
present state of things permanent; and this she 
could not bear. She had resigned for him her 
freedom, her university hopes, her pride, and her 
happiness. Herself she would not give, unless he 
loved her. 

Miss Kirby dared not put this before him. She 
felt the situation too delicate, too critical, for it to 
be wise for her to meddle. If the man loved Valery 
he must be trusted to make her know it, and to do 
so in his own way. When she was at the point of 
death, when everything but what was fundamental 
was out of sight, he had recalled her to life. Now 
that shades of the prison-house had once more col¬ 
lected—that they were both back in a modern world 
—the matter was more complicated; but if it was 
still to him vital he ought to triumph. 


The Final Arrangement 307 

Yet was it as she had warned him, touch and go. 
Dimly Miss Kirby felt that if he missed his chance 
that day it would be final. Studying his face, guarded 
though his expression habitually was, and little as 
he gave himself away, she judged him to be fully 
aware of the gravity of the occasion. 

Lyn came hurling himself into the room before 
she could say another word. He was in good spirits, 
for he had been working almost, if not quite, as hard 
as Carfrae, and was now eager as a boy for holi¬ 
days. Yet it was impossible to make plans, for all 
that Carfrae would say was that he had not yet 
consulted Val. 

“Well, you’d better be quick, for those young 
savages will be down on us like the wolf on the fold 
to-morrow,” observed Lyn, pouring cream on his 
porridge so lavishly that Kirdles took away the ewer 
and rebuked him. “You’ve got to go to Marter- 
stead this morning and meet the organising com¬ 
mittee,” he went on ruthlessly. “The celebrated 
Bart, and M.P. must do his devoirs; but after 
that you ought to get some time off, I really think. 
Ever since you came home you’ve been on the go.” 

“Yes,” said Carfrae mutinously, “and I’ve had 
about enough of your driving, young feller-me-lad. 
You can ring up the committee, and say that the 
Bart, has no intention whatever of changing his 
clothes in order to attend their fool meeting, but 
will deputise his secretary to do this for him while 
he lazes about at home.” 

This, however, Lyndsay would not allow. “Get 


308 His Second Venture 

it over,” he urged; “it won’t take long, and then 
you’re free. Val won’t appear before lunch to¬ 
day, because you know the Bowyers and the Hather- 
leghs are coming to dinner in honour of her birth¬ 
day; but if you’re a good lad you shall have the 
afternoon with her in the garden. So do as you’re 
told this morning, and Adney can replace you inside 
that most becoming set of flannels after lunch.” 

Carfrae threw his bread at the speaker, but 
yielded the point. After all, if he won this after¬ 
noon it would be best to have the morrow quite 
free. For a moment he pictured a dazzling possi¬ 
bility—himself and Valery side by side in the car, 
driving off together into the unknown; to some 
destination; anywhere—anywhere out of the world, 
wherein they might begin to realise each other. 

Yet the very improbability of such a journey, when 
he came to formulate it, accentuated his depression. 
What was he that such delight should await him? 
How should she know that inside his tropic-hardened 
skin and that dry official manner, which was so hard 
to shake off, was the heart of a boy, longing for 
hers? 

He was far from being his own master that after¬ 
noon as he sauntered down the garden, along the 
paved, yew-bordered walk to where Valery was in¬ 
stalled in the circular space at the end, by the sun¬ 
dial, in the chair he had so carefully chosen for 
her. 

It was folded up into a real chair that afternoon, 
and Val was sitting, not reclining in it. She looked 


[The Final Arrangement 309 

up from her book as he came sauntering towards 
her between the lilies, the delphiniums and the 
alstrcemerias. 

He had gone back into his flannels and wore no 
hat. The light breeze just lifted the dull gold of 
his hair. 

“Oh,” said Val, smiling with her usual air of 
camaraderie, “how jolly to see you look like that! 
No more Westminster for the present.” 

“No.” He dropped into the chair which stood 
beside her and from which she pushed old Trash, 
now quite a veteran, to make room for him. “I’m 
a free man at last,” he said. “Free to attend to 
your affairs, my dear girl.” He flattered himself 
that his tones contained no hint of the excitement 
that devoured him. 

She made no answer, but he heard her catch her 
breath, and imagined an inaudible, “Now for it!” 

“I think you know,” he began slowly, “that I 
have left things as they are for the past month, not 
because I considered Parliamentary affairs more 
urgent than your future, but because you have mani¬ 
festly not been equal to business. In consequence, 
I haven’t yet so much as thanked you for all that 
you have done for me.” 

She made a murmur of deprecation—rather a 
vehement one—sitting up as though she would like 
to bolt out of reach of inconvenient gratitude. He 
laid his hand upon her arm and held it lightly. 

“Steady on; this has got to be said, you know. 
It’s not merely what you have done during the past 


310 His Second Venture 

few months; culminating in your having risked your 
life—almost given it—for mine. It’s what you 
have done all the while I have been away from 
home. Your goodness to my children; your loyalty; 
your heroic bearing of an almost unbearable situ¬ 
ation. I haven’t a word to say for myself. I dealt 
you a rotten hand, poor child; my only excuse is 
that I didn’t realise what a rotten hand it was. But 
I’m not going to make excuses. The only reason 
I mention it is to emphasise the point that, in view of 
what I owe to you, it stands to reason that nothing 
I could do for you now would be too much.” 

She made no reply. Her eyes were upon the 
muscular limb which lay over the arm of her chair. 
It was bare to the elbow, for Carfrae had been 
playing a set of tennis with Lyndsay. Never before 
had she seen it so, for it was usually concealed be¬ 
neath faultless shirt-cuffs. All round the wrist was 
a band, more than two inches wide, of darkened, dis¬ 
coloured flesh, seamed and scarred with healed sores 
—the unfading memorial of his manacles. The 
actual sight of that silent witness to the torture he 
had borne affected her deeply. He had no idea at 
all of the way in which those wounds—“poor, poor 
dumb mouths”—were speaking for him. After a 
slight pause, which she made no attempt to fill, he 
went on: 

“Nothing could be too much; and I want you to 
understand that I actually mean what I say. I am 
not talking figuratively. I shall accept whatever you 
deal out to me. I have no rights. I can urge no 


The Final Arrangement 311 

claims upon you. If you say you are going away 
to leave me for ever, I shall do my best to submit 
even to that. The trouble is that, as far as the 
law goes, it isn’t going to be so easy to set you 
free.” 

Under his lids he watched her narrowly as he 
spoke. He was almost sure that he was saying what 
she had not expected him to say. Her expression 
changed slightly. He took out his cigarette-case 
to give her a chance to let his words sink in. “May 
I smoke?” he asked politely, and said no more until 
he had lit his cigarette. 

“I went the other day,” said he presently, “to 
my own lawyer, to consult him about this nullity 
business, putting the case as if it had to do with 
someone else. There are various grounds upon 
which such a suit may be brought, but the only one 
that can be put forward as between you and me, 
is the ground of fraud or mistake. Your conten¬ 
tion is that you married me under a mistake, and 
upon that ground you plead to be set at liberty. 
That being so, it is you from whom the application 
must proceed—not me.” 

She had still no remark to make, and after await¬ 
ing one for a few moments he went on: 

“Unfortunately, we are both so much in the pub¬ 
lic eye that we must be prepared for publicity. As 
you know, I dislike that, partly on my own account, 
but far more on yours. However, I want you to 
know that if you insist I shall submit. You can go 
ahead; and if they hoof me out of the constituency 


312 His Second Venture 

I shall take it as my just punishment. But there is 
a point upon which I would like to make myself 
clear before going on to put before you the fact 
which would, I fear, render a suit for nullity impos¬ 
sible-” 

“Impossible?” 

“Yes, we’ll come to that directly. What I want 
first to assure you of is this: that if it is still your 
fixed determination to leave me, you can trust me 
to respect your decision without any decree of the 
courts. If you tell me to stand out, I stand out. 
That I swear solemnly to you. You may go where 
you choose, and I’ll not trouble you. The flaw in 
that plan is, of course, that legally you will not be 
free. So that perhaps”—he hesitated a long time, 
holding his smoking cigarette before his eyes, and 
staring at it as though it interested him profoundly— 
“perhaps you will wish not to make a decision un¬ 
til you have had time to—er—consult Lyndsay?” 

“Lyndsay?” echoed Valery in accents of sharp 
surprise. “What on earth has Lyndsay to do with 
it?” 

Carfrae turned scarlet. Through all his frame 
ran a throb of sheer gladness. He was so moved 
that for a moment he could not reply; and after 
seeking about in her mind for some reason for the 
introduction of Lyn’s name, Val said hurriedly: 

“Is it because he went to Grendon and fetched 
me back, that you think I rely so much upon his 
judgment as to shape my whole future by it? It 
was not Lyn himself, but what he told me, that de- 



The Final Arrangement 313 

cided me to do as I did. I had not realised what 
my going away would mean. He made me see that 
I was putting you in the worst kind of hole; but 
he was not responsible for my choice.” 

Caron raised his head and expanded his lungs in 
a deep breath. So far was Valery from loving 
Lyndsay that she did not even understand the sug¬ 
gestion which underlay her husband’s words. The 
man’s heart began to beat so heavily that he him¬ 
self was astonished at the physical effect of his emo¬ 
tion. 

“I see,” he replied; and for a long moment said 
no more. 

Valery, too, was silent awhile, sensing the im¬ 
pact of something formidable. At last she said fal- 
teringly, “Will you tell me, please, why you say I 
cannot be legally free? What is the circumstance 
that makes it impossible?” 

He dropped his cigarette on the grass and set his 
foot on it. Then, leaning forward, he turned to her. 
“The only ground upon which you could sue has 
disappeared.” 

That drew her eyes to meet his own, though she 
could not face what she saw there for more than a 
second. “Explain, please,” she stammered. 

“Sure you want me to?” meaningly. 

Again her lids rose, and again they fell in con¬ 
fusion. 

“Of course I do.” 

“Pretty obvious, isn’t it? The reason appears 
to be so well known to everybody, not merely in 


314 His Second Venture 

this house, but also in this constituency, that it seems 
odd you should be ignorant of it. You say you mar¬ 
ried me under the impression that I loved you. I 
mean that is what you will have to plead as your 
reason—that you supposed I loved you, and sub¬ 
sequently discovered that I did not. They will 
doubtless proceed to ask me whether it is true that 
I do not love you; and I shall have either to per¬ 
jure myself or to confess that I love you to dis¬ 
traction, and that if you leave me I shall be abso¬ 
lutely and utterly wretched.” 

Val sat in utter silence, hoping he could not hear 
her heart beat. She did not look up. 

“Well,” he asked at last, “what about it, Val? 
Are you going to tell me to commit perjury? If 
you order it I must sink even to that; but I’d much— 
rather—not.” 

Very low, under her breath she hurriedly mur¬ 
mured, “Why not go on as we are for a year, as we 
arranged?” 

“No, Val. Can’t be done. Sorry, but it can’t. 
If you remember my outbreak the day before your 
accident—do you remember it, by the way?” 

“Yes,” . . . hardly audible. 

“Then I should have thought you would know 
better than to suggest such a thing. I want you for 
my own; and if you won’t—well, then, my dear, I 
must get away to some place where I can neither 
see nor hear you. I’m at the end of my tether.” 

There was no reply. He leaned forward, to try 
and look into the obstinately lowered eyes. His 


The Final Arrangement 315 

mouth almost touched her hair. “Val, what made 
you turn back that day after we had parted in the 
park? What brought you back to Dairy Lodge? 
Answer me, please.” 

“I . . . suddenly realised that you were in dan¬ 
ger.” 

“What did that matter to you? If they had got 
me you would have been free—rid of me for ever! 
Wouldn’t that have been splendid?” 

He was too near—too dominating for her. Her 
calm broke up suddenly. “Oh, Car, don’t be silly! 
You talk nonsense; you don’t mean it—you don’t— 
you can’t! You don’t really love me. . . 

She sprang to her feet, with the impulse to flee. 
He rose also, caught her, held her, with a grip so 
determined that she knew she could not escape until 
he willed it. 

Words came tumbling from her in passionate in¬ 
coherence. “It is not—is not really—love! It is 
just that you think it wiser to be friends. You 
want to make the best of a bad job, and you are— 
so—correct—you would like to make friends. . . . 
Oh”—as she struggled to evade his eager mouth— 
“I will not submit, I will not! I am free—yes, I am 
free, whatever you say.” Then, as he had his way 
and his kiss held her a long moment quiveringly 
silent, she added a cry of pitiful surrender. “Oh, 
if it were not real, this time, what would become of 
me?” 

“Val,” he gasped between laughter and tears, 


316 His Second Venture 

“don’t be a little fool! Can’t you feel —don’t you 
know —that it’s the real thing this time? Didn’t you 
know it when I made a scene in the old nursery? 
Can you look me in the eyes and say you didn’t know 
it when I called you back from death? Why, Val, 
if it were not for me you’d be dead at this moment. 
You’re my conquest—the spoils of victory! Do you 
imagine I am going to let my prize escape me? Why 
do you suppose I called you back, but because I 
couldn’t live without you?” 

Lyndsay sat by the tea-table in the garden, ad¬ 
miring the magnificent iced cake which the cook had 
prepared to do honour to her ladyship’s birthday. 

Kirdles had strolled down the yew-walk to tell 
Val that tea was ready. She now came into sight 
hurriedly, almost running, her cheeks scarlet, her 
eyes swimming. 

“Hallo, old dear, what’s up?” asked Lyn, quite 
startled. 

Kirdles sank into a chair, and fumbled for a hand¬ 
kerchief to wipe away the tears which were running 
from her eyes. 

“It’s all right,” she sobbed, and for a minute 
could add no more. Then she reiterated, “Thank 
God, it’s all right. I’ve just seen them. Too beau¬ 
tiful ! Too perfect! Thank God, I gave the right 
advice, after all! My dear, this isn’t Val’s birth¬ 
day. It’s her wedding-day ! ,} 

Lyndsay sprang from his seat at her words, and 


The Final Arrangement 317 

turned his back upon her; but it was not many 
minutes before he once more reseated himself, facing 
the world anew. 

“Her happiness comes before all,” he said quietly. 














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